Owned by Fire
by Andartha
Summary: After he banishes his wife Ursa, Fire Lord Ozai takes a slave to warm his sheets. The return of the Avatar...changes things. Ozai redemption and dark romance - but it's NOT "tru lurve" that saves the day.  OFC. Warnings!
1. Owned by Fire

**Summary:** After he banishes his wife Ursa, Fire Lord Ozai picks a slave to warm his sheets.

**Author's note: **

Pairing Ozai/OC.

Het.

Starts about 3 years before the events in A:TLA. Mentions events up to 7 years earlier than the events in the series.

Stand-Alone Vignette

**Warnings:** Explicit torture, slavery, non-con, swearing and bits of sappy emoness. NC-17.

* * *

There are moments where she forgets she is his slave.

It's been four years now since the night he banished his wife, Ursa.

Four years since he took her as his personal pleasure slave and she's been with him every night.

The first year, he hardly talked to her at all, only harshly ordering her how to move to better please him or gently whispering promises of cruelties yet to come into her ear.

Watching her tense up as she tries to prepare herself for the pain and humiliation, only to fail in the end, amuses him greatly.

Once he's broken down her defences and her defiance has ceded to obedience (most of the time), his satisfaction is thick in the air.

The second year, as she desperately tries to find ways to distract him, he discovers that she can please him in more ways than just the one.

Muscles sore from vigorous exercise (he keeps himself as trim as he used to be when he was a general in his fathers' army) yield to her gentle fingers, almost instantly relaxing into supple warmth.

When he discovers that she is waterbending to achieve what no other of his other attendants has ever been able to do, he whips her like he has never done before.

After she recovers, he makes certain she knows that if any harm befalls him, the remains of her people will be annihilated. It is an effective blackmail. But from that day on, she is also his personal healer, making sure his powers of recovery from even the most vicious and bloody training-fights are the awe of his entire court.

One night in the third year, he doesn't bother to chain her back to her place at the foot of his bed after he is done with her. He just pulls her close and she falls asleep in his arms. She wakes up the next morning with him possessively curled around her, her backside moulded to his front, skin on skin. His heartbeat and his calm, deep breaths sooth her back to sleep.

The next time she wakes, it is because he has started nibbling on her ear, the sensation tickling, but not unpleasant. Once he's sure she's awake, he starts to caress her body, his hands deft and strong as he strokes her breasts. For the first time, the arousal she feels as he fucks her does not feel like a betrayal her body is inflicting on her soul.

She is surprised in the fourth year, when he asks for her advice. It is nothing big. Just some bit about how best to preserve fish caught near the south pole, so it will keep longer and can be used for trade. She knows he will also use the knowledge to improve provisions for his troops, and tells him as much. Tells him no.

His anger flares and his fingers, gently stroking her shoulder just a moment before, now are bruising her flesh, but her heart and soul have not eroded so far that she has forgotten who she is…and neither has she forgotten who he is and what he has done.

So she taunts him, telling him that the Fire Nation can't be THAT strong and that their civilization must be severely LACKING if they can't figure out how to preserve fish in better ways than a bunch of "dirty, stinking barbarians" does it.

It's the first argument he has lost with her and he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Later, when indeed the quartermasters and cooks in his army have figured out a better way to preserve the fish, he makes her pay for her disobedience. She can't sit for a week and has to sleep on her belly, her behind and back smart so badly, but the memory of him slamming that door in frustration makes her smile whenever she remembers it.

It is not the last time she defies him, even though he makes her pay dearly each time. Never so dearly though that it would break her; for where would be the fun in that?

He never allows her to heal herself after he punishes her…but he does feed her sweets. And somehow, from then on, he keeps asking her for her view every once in a while.

As he asks her, it does not escape him that she's fairly knowledgeable about all things concerning his court.

The servants and attendants that come to his quarters gossip like crazy, never thinking much about Ozai's personal slave and so, even though she never leaves his quarters, she is fairly informed about anything going on in the court and in the capital. Even some scarce information about what's happening in the rest of the world reaches her ears.

Although of course he double-checks anything she tells him, in time she often is the first person he asks when it comes to questions like what gesture might settle a feud within the stone-masons guild or for what reason a wealthy family is reluctant to marry their daughter to a young court noble.

If she figures the answer won't bring harm to those who oppose the Fire Nation, she will answer him.

When he acts on the information she has supplied and the results are good, he will bring her small presents.

It is not for the sake of these gifts that she listens to the gossip though. To her who she owns nothing but is owned herself, the tidbits she gleans about her people's welfare are her most treasured possessions.

With time and familiarity, the simple lines of their beginning blur and what was once an uneven fight has now turned into an intricate dance. Often, when late at night the lights have been dimmed, and they lie together in bed, talking, his hand resting comfortably on her hip, she sometimes forgets she is his slave.

The nightmares she has of him are replaced with nightmares of loosing herself.

It takes a while for her to realize, but the scraps of kindness and tenderness he has been feeding her have given her hope.

Hope, that maybe, fire and water can coexist.

Hope, that one day, he might change and return peace to the world.

Is her hope true? Or is it a poison, slowly eating away at her, at what she believes, until all that remains is an empty shell? She can no longer tell the difference.

Where his cruelty has failed to break her, these moments of happiness might actually succeed.

Days blend into weeks, weeks into months.

A quiet complacency has come over her. Fiery disagreements give way to gentle teasing.

Where once he would have bound her and then flogged her, he now playfully swats at her bottom and quips back.

Where once he would have called her a filthy whore, who got no better than she deserved, he now whispers sweet nothings in her ear.

The cold, triumphant smirks have been replaced by warm and welcoming smiles and she finds her heart melting at the sight.

It takes just a few short hours to kill her hope, to purge the poison.

All it takes is hearing about how he challenged his son to an Agni Kai for speaking out of turn and then, with his powerful firebending skills, proceeded to maim the 13 year old boy.

She marvels at Prince Zuko's integrity (valuing the lives of his soldiers more than an easy victory!), his courage (speaking out in front the assembled military leaders, even though he is but a boy…)

and last but far from least at his love and loyalty towards a father who deserves neither.

Little does Ozai know that when he burns his son's face, he also burns the illusion that he can ever be anything but the nemesis of all she holds dear.

The embers of her hatred and her anger for her abuser, her OWNER, her ENEMY, flame into new life, burning brighter and hotter than ever. It is a purifiying fire that scorches her heart to ashes, leaving her with icy clarity as to what her path is.

That night, when her lover comes to their bedroom, she showers him with her contempt, hitting him with derisive epitaphs as hard and as fast as she can.

"You are such worthless, lowlife SCUM."

"Did you wank off with your spineless sycophants over how MANLY you are after proving your immense prowess by beating up your not-yet-of-age son?"

"Your mother must have fucked a roach-slug to produce something as upstanding as you. Oh right, that roach-slug was ugly old Az-fuck-on, wasn't it?"

"Asshole"

"Jerkface"

"Shithead"

For a few heartbeats, he just looked at her, stunned. Then, fast as lightning, he strikes her down.

She falls and rolls with the blow, coming up bouncing. Her nose bleeds, but she just smirks and spits in his face.

The fight was short and ugly. She attacks ferociously with a strength that belies her smaller frame, fuelled by blinding hot rage and hatred. But in the end, he is stronger than her and better versed in the art of fighting. And while her fury burns hot, his turns icy cold and calculating.

He doesn't care that her left arm is broken when he first undresses and then chains her. He threads her shackles through iron rings set high up into the wall of his chamber and then pulls them tight so she had to stand on her toes, if she doesn't want her broken arm to bear her weight.

Her back is to him, exposed. It is a position he hasn't put her in for almost two years.

And they both know, this time he will not hold back.

She has not only crossed a limit, she has thrown her transgression in his face, proud and unrepentant. He no longer owns her. He no longer dictates her actions. She is free. And for that, he will break her.

The whip he wields licks along her back, slowly at first, with small blossoms of pain melding into a flowering meadow of agony. She is used to this. When the pain rises over her threshold, her breathing grows sharp an jagged, but she still has will left and forces herself not to cry out as she usually would.

The rhythm of his blows picks up the pace, the force of his strikes finally breaking her skin. He sees that she is shaking, trying to hold up her weight while standing on her toes and failing. It fills him with grim satisfaction.

When she finally loses her battle against gravity and sags in her chains, bringing her weight to bear on her arms, one good, one broken, she cannot hold in the small moan escaping her lips. It is too little to satisfy his need for reprisal.

The rage he had felt when she had defied him burns icy and steady in his gut.

The shredded skin on her back is covered with blood that turns black as it dries and all he can think of is how the night before, he had watched her as she slept in his arms, her lips curved in a gentle smile, and how he had felt truly at peace for the first time in ages. It doesn't matter.

His word is law.

His will is destined to shape the world.

No one would be allowed to stand against him.

She can hardly breathe. The screams she keeps bundled up inside, trying to be brave, are strangling her.

She knows he will stop whipping her eventually and find some other way to torment her, but still it takes her a moment to adjust when the lashes cease.

For a short moment, all that can be heard is their breathing, her breaths short and gasping, his slow and deep and forceful. She flinched when he moves in and touches her broken arm. It is a gentle touch, almost a caress. His fingers wandered down to her shoulder, warm. She tries to jerk away, despite the agony that cascades from her fractured arm through her whole body. But the chains are too short. His fingers resume their path, finally reaching her bloodied back and she quivers in anguish, biting her lips bloody to keep the screams in.

Touching her, he calls fire, bending it so that it warms his hands. When his softly stroking fingers reach the bloody ruins of her back, he bends the fire more and warmth turns to searing heat. Worn out and worn down by the suffering he has inflicted so far, it takes her a moment to react. But as smoke starts to curl up beneath his hands and the scent of burnt flesh fills the air, she starts to scream. It takes few minutes, but soon, he hears what he has been waiting for. She is begging him. Once again, she is his.

After he is finished with her, instead of keeping her in his quarters as usual, he has her thrown into a small, damp prison cell beneath the palace.

It is the first time in four years that they are apart.

He tells himself he does not care, yet he takes no other woman to his bed. He does not send her sweets (he will never again indulge a slave that way), but he does see to it that she is attended by the best healers in the capital, one of them another waterbender who belongs to one of the Fire Nations' wealthiest merchants. It would be a pity if that pretty skin scarred.

When she is finally returned to him, she is empty-eyed and obedient. She follows his every order without hesitation, even smiling at him when he asks for it. At first he is satisfied, but with time, satisfaction yields to frustration. The spark that warmed him has gone out. He has broken her and yet, he cannot discard her like he should.

It does not matter anymore to her what she once was.

Her heart is a hollowed-out husk, her self burned to fallow ashes.

She is there, but not THERE.

She has reached her goal.

She is safe.

She will never again forget that she is nothing but his slave.

* * *

**Edit:** I'm trying to put together a kind of soundtrack for this story and from the moment on where Kian defies Ozai to the end of this chapter, I think I have found the perfect song: Within Temptation's "What have you done now?". It's a duet between a man and a woman and I think it fits perfectly. Here's an excerpt from the lyrics:

_Female voice:_

Would you mind if I hurt you?

Understand that I need to

Wish that I had other choices

than to harm the one I love

_Male voice:_

What have you done now?

I know I'd better stop trying

You know that there's no denying

I won't show mercy on you now

_Both: _

I know I should stop believing

I know that there's no retrieving

It's over now

_Female voice:_

What have you done?

_Male voice:_

What have you done now?

_Both:_

I, I've been waiting for someone like you

But now you are slipping away

What have you done now

Why, Why does fate make us suffer

There's a curse between us

Between me and you

…

_Female voice:_

Would you mind if I killed you?

Would you mind if I tried to?

Cause you have turned into my worst enemy

You carry hate that I feel

…

_Both:_

I, I've been waiting for someone like you

But now you are slipping away

_Male voice:_

What have you done now

_Both:_

Why, Why does fate make us suffer

There's a curse between us

Between me and you

…

_Both: _

I will not fall

Won't let it go

We will be free

When it ends

…


	2. Scattered by the Wind

**Disclaimer: **Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary: **Ozai has broken her, but she remains his, even after he has set off to conquer the world.

**Author's note: **

Pairing Ozai/OC.

Het.

Starts about 3 years before A:TLA. Contains flashbacks.

Sequel to "Owned by Fire", but can also be read as a stand-alone vignette.

**Warnings:** Some swearing, mention of slavery; non-con, NC-17.

* * *

I got **artwork for this chapter **as a gift for my birthday from the incredible **Adorna**. You can find "Loss" over at my deviantart account. The link is in my profile. ^_^

* * *

**IMPORTANT :**

NOT death-fic, despite how things might look for a while. Everybody gets out alive.

* * *

These days, she is little more than a living doll.

She moves when ordered, speaks when asked, dances and smiles when commanded.

The colours of her world seem oddly faded. The chatter of the servants, once her key to what she treasured most, news from outside, from home, has become a faint hum somewhere in the background. When he asks her to touch him, her fingers cannot tell whether his skin is as warm as she remembers or as cold as she thinks it should be.

She deems the loss of her spirit a small price for keeping her integrity and her soul.

Even though she is still his slave, in a way her rebellion was successful. The memory of the agony as he whipped and burned her in punishment has become a wall between them that neither of them can breach anymore.

It's not as if he hasn't tried. Playing with a broken toy turned out to be quite unsatisfactory and so he tries to mend things. First with gentleness and gifts, but for all the pretty and polite "thank you's", her response remains vapid and empty. Irritated, he tries cruelty next, but her cries for mercy ring as hollow as did her thanks.

In the end, he convinces himself that a mindless, obedient slave is a much more fitting plaything for the ruler of the Fire Nation than a lively, but not so obedient one.

Weeks pass, turning into months and then into years. Her minds starts to slip here and there. She looses time, sometimes no longer able to remember how she got from here to there or what happened between breakfast and lunch. One moment, she sees the corpses of friends and family littering the ruins of the palace, only to find them gone and the palace as intact as ever in the next. As she sleeps on her pallet, chained to the foot of his bed, nightmares haunt her, but she can neither move nor scream.

She is not the only one unravelling and as she watches, the remnants of what made him human disappear.

Each day, he becomes faster to anger and slower to appease. He used to regard failures as an opportunity to weed out errors and flaws; now, failures are reduced to an opportunity to mete out the harshest punishment possible.

In the beginning, he still worried about the causalities of war, asserting that the grandeur of the Fire Nation would be meaningless if there weren't any people around to appreciate it. If it didn't hinder the progress of his conquest, he would pick tactics that spared the lives of his soldiers and of civilians. He doesn't anymore. By now, a dead civilian is just a fallen enemy and a fallen soldier a weakling who didn't deserve better.

He still finds satisfaction in the victories of his army, but other than that, there are fewer things each day that will move his heart. He takes immense pleasure in planning and executing his next move, but increasingly less in anything else. Fucking her becomes no more than taking care of a bodily need and he pays more attention to the furniture than to her.

The day she first met him, she could feel the warmth of his fire, even though it was surrounded by a wall of ice.

The day he maimed his son, the fire went out, leaving but glowing embers.

A chilling, creeping frost is claiming him, and she watches the last sparks wink out one by one.

When he leaves to conquer the world, he doesn't even tell her good-bye.

What wakes her from her stupor is not the prattling of an old servant, telling her that she's free. It is Ozai's prolonged absence. Regardless of all else, for the last seven years, his has been the tune she has danced to. Now there is only a deafening silence.

She hardly notices when they take off her chains. The only thing she knows is that she has to find him, because she does not know what to do with herself without him. Like a ghost, she drifts from one room to the next. First within his quarters, and, when no one hinders her from doing so, in the rest of the palace.

The thing that startles her into full awareness is running across people from the Southern Water Tribe, from home, wandering freely around the palace, at ease, joking with each other. She hides behind the nearest pillar from them, her heart pounding. At first, she is not sure whether this is just another one of her hallucinations, but when it happens more than once and she also sees people from the Earth Kingdom, she knows things have changed.

By her dress, she is just another minor Fire Nation Noblewoman and as long as no one notices her blue eyes, which she keeps carefully lowered, no one pays attention to her. So once she begins to eavesdrop on those around her, it does not take her long to gather the full story. Ozai has been defeated by the Avatar, his firebending taken away and he himself thrown into jail.

If anything, an obedient slave has good self-control, so she makes it back to his quarters before she breaks down. She curls up on her pallet and dissolves into a fit of helpless giggles, which change into heartbroken sobs, which segue right into mad laughter. Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat.

It takes her until next morning to get her act together and to seriously think about the situation. A servant comes in and brings her breakfast, like they have kept doing all the time. For a change, she does not just stare right through the man, but addresses him once he has set the food down on a table.

"Kuro?"

"Kyaaahhhh!" He jumps almost hip-high and then tumbles down in an untidy heap, he is that startled. As he picks himself up from the ground, she bows deeply to him and apologizes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." She rights herself and, not looking at him, plucks at the sleeve of her robe, one of the more sumptuous ones Ozai clothed her in.

He brushes himself off, still panting a bit. "Uhm…it's alright Mylady. It's just that….uhm…."

She tentatively looks up at him and gives him a tremulous smile. "Yes, I know. But the world is changing…and that change is affecting me to…..and you as well, I believe. I guess….I guess it's sink or swim for either of us?"

"Uhm, yes Milady."

"I remember old Zanto coming in and explaining something about all the slaves being freed. I'm afraid I was in no state to pay him much attention at that time, and I would be grateful if you could repeat it to me…..please."

Kuro, who has seen her in various stages of undress as well as tied up, tied down and marked by Ozai's little games, but who has never actually talked with her, blushes, flustered and unsure how to handle their changed positions. People who couldn't adapt quickly tended not to last long in the old Firelord's service though, and Kuro's been on the staff for the Firelord's private quarters for years. He gives her a curt bow, Fire Nation style, and then starts rattling off information.

It turns out that indeed all the slaves and all prisoners of war have been freed. However, taking care of them and sending them home again, turns out to be an organizational nightmare. Some of them have been born in captivity. Some of them no longer have homes to return to. Some owners refuse to give up their property and try to hide their slaves. A few have been treated well by the ones that owned them, and have made their new home within the Fire Nation. Others, after long years existing as property, abused and degraded, simply have trouble adjusting to being free again. She is painfully aware that she belongs in this latter category. The way she keeps avoiding her people like the plague, even though she has dreamed of going home all these years, bears ugly testimony to that.

Lists with names and locations of the former slaves are being compiled and continuously updated as information about the enslaved people's whereabouts trickle in. Teams, composed of Fire Nation officials working together with guests from the other nations, are searching them out and, if necessary, extricating them from their owners. Things mostly go smoothly that way, with the freed slaves trusting the people from the Earth Kingdom or the Water Tribe more than they would anybody from the Fire Nation, and the Fire Nation Officials adding the bureaucratic oomph to the process. There's also a kind of refugee camp in the capital, where former slaves that for some reason or other aren't ready to go home can live and re-orient themselves.

All in all, it's a tremendous amount of work, and for the time being, those that are at no risk of further abuse have been classified as low priority and have been left where they are, unless they expressed wishes otherwise. She belongs in that category and so far, no one had come to see her.

She dreads the day when someone will.

How will she explain to her tribe, to her family, to her brother what she has become?

How can she live with them, knowing she will see pity and regrets in their eyes?

She rages at Ozai, for barring her from returning home, even though he shouldn't have power over her anymore. But even imprisoned, he rules her life yet.

Slowly, she settles into a new routine. In the mornings, she will bathe and dress herself. In the past, she had been cleaning herself with oiled pieces of cloth as Ozai hadn't allowed her anywhere near a larger quantity of water. It had especially irked her, because there was a bath adjoining the Firelord's sleeping chamber, which she KNEW contained a small pool for bathing, fed by a warm underground spring. Now, she can go there too, right past the intricately decorated metal door that barred her access until now. Having enough water to actually immerse herself fully makes her purr with satisfaction. Afterwards, Kuro will bring her breakfast and then she will spend the day roaming the palace, trying to figure out what to do with her life, now that everything has changed.

The fact that her lover and tormentor is imprisoned is both a curse and a blessing.

It is exhilarating to be free again, to just walk about without anybody stopping her. Nobody is giving her orders or punishing her and people, who just see another Fire Nation Noble when they look at her, are giving her respectful nods when she passes them in the hallway….But she is strangely restless, ill at ease.

When she dresses herself, she will also take a peek at the clothes he left behind. Goosebumps run up her arms as she touches the robe he wore the night he first claimed her. She hides her face in the shirt he wore when he first smiled at her, and cries. The scarf he often used to tie her hands, she nearly cuts apart. The small knife, recently picked up somewhere in the palace, is already in her hand, but then she gently folds the fabric instead and hides it in the depth of the wardrobe. A few strands of his hair in a brush, lost and forgotten under a dressing table, are her most treasured find. Without thinking much about it, she weaves them into a bracelet which she wears night and day. In the evenings, she finds herself snuggling into the covers of the bed (now hers), trying to find some remnant of his presence, his scent, and she finally admits to herself that she misses him; for all that she hates him too.

It is an infuriating realization and the next morning, just because she needs to vent, she sneaks up into his personal library, and uses his portrait there as a target for her knife throwing practice. Hours later, still fuming, she finally figures out how the feelings for him that she thought long dead have dared to be reborn from the ashes: the overall good mood, the frickin' HOPE for a better future that pervades the whole palace has gotten to her too. And even thought her mind tells her heart that it's gone bat-shit insane, her heart insist that there is a possibility, even if it's only a possibility the size of a grain of sand, that Ozai might change too.

She is not in love with the monster that imprisoned and tortured her. She is in love with the man he could be and who was her companion, her lover, her friend, for a few short moments, all gone too fast:

Seven years back, when it was THAT time of the month for her and she had been suffering from exceptionally bad cramps, he had warmed her aching back with his hands, easing her discomfort.

Six years back, the capitol had been celebrating midsummer night. Music had been sweet in the air, for even though Fire Nation people as a rule didn't dance, deeming it undignified and barbaric, they still appreciated the pleasure a beautiful tune could bring to the heart. Her Lord and Master had been off, presiding over some banquet, or so she thought, and so she had grasped at the opportunity and had snuck into the gardens and had danced to her hearts content. When she heard him chuckling from the shadows she froze like a rabbit confronted with a venomous snake. He had been behind her, and she could hear his footsteps on the gravel as he approached. As he reached her, he gently turned her around. She didn't dare look at him, but his fingers lifted her chin until her eyes met his. She stood, surprised and mesmerized by the sight of his smile, which had warmed his eyes to a golden glow. He had leisurely pulled her close to him, and had spun her around in a slow waltz, his eyes never leaving hers.

Five years back, she saw him fly into a black rage when he learned that in one of the conquered cities, an official had been accusing people on trumped up charges, only so he could imprison them and torture them to death…for fun. He has the man discharged from his post, publicly beaten and then imprisoned for life and she is happy to see justice served by his hand. And while she also grinds her teeth in frustration because he can't see how his own conduct is a milder version of what his minion has been doing, the disgust in his face as he reads the detailed reports tells her that some part of him can still tell what is right and what is wrong.

The fact that she has started to sort out her feelings, that she knows why she misses him, what she hopes for, helps somewhat, but not much. Now that Ozai has become a prisoner and has a LOT of time to reflect on things does not mean that the good that she once saw in him is still there. And even if it was: he is a proud and arrogant creature and any pressure exerted on him will only be met with defiance and contempt.

And if she went to see him? The prison where the previous Fire Lord is held is not far away. But even if they let her in…she doubts seeing her would mean anything to him at all. Her love for the man he could have been means nothing to him and the man he is could not care less about her either her love or her burning anger.

So for the time being, as her hope keeps nudging her with "maybe time WILL change him and THEN you can go talk to him", she takes comfort in knowing he is still around, and begins to make plans for the future. She will need a place to stay, a place where she can wait until either he has indeed changed ("Hah! Not bloody likely!" her reason interjects) or until she has managed to untangle her emotions for Ozai enough to be indifferent to him and his fate. Everybody around her is building a new life, and she decides she will do the same. She can't ever go home again, but the world is a big place and she figures that with her healing skills, she can contribute her part to making the Four Nations whole again.

In her search for a place to stay and people to stay with (she has been too lonely these last few years and she swears to herself she will never be alone again), she closely observes the ongoings around her, and most of what she sees and hears makes her happy and feeds her hope for a better future:

Prince Zuko, ally and friend to the Avatar, has become the new Firelord and in his own way, he is making Sozin's dream come true. The Fire Nation IS sharing its' greatness with the rest of the world.

Fire Nation mechanists are designing equipment that will assist farmers in the Earth Kingdom. The material for these farming machines is coming from the disassembled parts of Fire Nation war tanks. The Navy is shipping building material and goods to the Water Tribes to help them rebuild their villages and towns, not all of which had originally been made of snow and ice. Fire Nation airships are used to transport workers and artisans to the Air Temples in an effort to rebuild them.

The Avatar and his friends, down to and including Fire Lord Zuko, are making trips around the country, inspecting everything from schools to fisheries and making changes, and while the process itself is sometimes quite humorous (there is one infamous incident involving a snowman and a tannery owner who was polluting the earth for miles around), the results are undeniably improvements on current conditions and find the approval of the common people.

And while there is some grumbling amongst the nobles and the soldiers about…well, not exactly having lost, but not exactly having won the war either…most people don't seem to miss the fighting all that much. It is simply that the list of lives lost is long in the Fire Nation too and all families have loved ones missing: grandfathers and sons and aunts and best friends.

Soldiers, away from home for years, finally return, and are welcomed with open arms and tears of joy by their spouses and children. Now that people no longer need to worry if those that have gone to war will ever return, the relief is palpable. Also, if glory can no longer been gained by fighting Water Tribes and Earth Kingdom, it sure as hell can be gained helping them, so even those that hunger to prove themselves to their families and the world are able to find their place.

Still, for the last years, she has watched Ozai deal with the darker sides of his court and his nation, and she knows where to look to find what lurks in the shadows. There are those who have gained wealth and power in the war and who are loosing most of that now, as retribution is paid to the other Nations. She knows who they are and she takes note of them and their retainers and the furtive glances between them as they pass each other in the corridors of the palace. Nobody else seems to pay them much attention. She hopes this is an oversight that someone will correct soon, for otherwise, the new Fire Lord and his reign will come to an ugly end, sometime in the near future.

She contemplates telling someone, but she has no proof, no solid evidence, and who would be willing to listen to the ramblings of the former Fire Lord's pleasure slave?

So for the time being, she resigns herself to observe and to write reports in the hope that sometime soon, she will find something solid to pass on. She figures that if she has something to corroborate her claims, maybe she can get someone like Mai, Fire Lord Zuko's fiancé to listen. Lady Mai is no stranger to court intrigue and for all her affectations of boredom, she's as sharp as the throwing darts she favours, plus, for a future Fire Lady, she's still pretty accessible for someone who looks like a minor court noble.

Keeping track of possible traitors (she snickers as she notices how much like Ozai she has become in this regard) is not her only occupation as weeks pass. She plans her future and after defeatedly resigning herself to taking up residence in the capitol (she can't bring herself to leave him behind just yet), she contacts the office responsible for the relocation of former slaves. She refuses to tell them who her family is, and she damn well won't let them know that she is a waterbender (only Ozai knew that) but those are options that are open to former slaves and without further ado, the bureaucrats help her sign the lease for a small room in the city, rented out by a nice elderly couple. She plans to set up a business offering massages and acupressure in order to pay her bills and keep food in her mouth. Kuro helps her pack her things. Together, they sort out which things she can keep (All of the clothes, some of which she might sell at a later date to help fund her business; some minor trinkets and baubles) and which things she can't keep (There's a pearl necklace she loves for its shimmering, pure beauty, so much like the moon from which she draws her power. Ozai would have her wear just the necklace and little else, and there are actually some happy memories connected to that. But it belongs to the royal treasury and is returned there.).

She is in the bedchamber, folding a gossamer shirt that will go into the last crate that has to be packed and sent to her new home as Kuro comes in. In the past weeks they both have discovered that easygoing banter is a good way to deal with the embarrassments of the past, so when he remains silent and won't even look at her, she feels a flurry of dark butterflies take wing in her centre. Her hands tremble as she grips the shirt, her knuckles white.

"What has happened? Tell me!" Her voice is terse.

He takes a sharp breath, exhales and finally meets her eyes. His eyes, usually a golden brown, are black with grief, if for himself or for her, she can't tell.

"He is dead." There is no need to clarify who he is talking about.

She shakes her head, slowly. "No….Kuro…he can't be….He can't! You must be mistaken…He has to be alive….He…". Her voice trails off, her denial silenced by the certainty written in every line of his face.

"They found him in his cell this morning, the rigor of death already setting in. There was not a mark on his body. Rumour has it that he simply willed his breath to stop in one last act of spite towards his son and the Avatar. There's an ongoing investigation to see if foul-play was involved, but so far it has turned up nothing. My cousin was one of the jailers assigned to Fire Lord Oz….former Fire Lord Ozai, that's how I know for sure. I….I'm sorry."

Inwardly she rages that it can't be true, that there must be some kind of mistake, but the sincerity of Kuro's words pierces the rapid fire of desperate lies that she tries to tell herself. She wants to say something, but her throat is so tight she can barely breathe and all that comes out is a harsh cry that echoes in the room like ice breaking. Her hands clench and unclench, frantically trying to grasp something that is no longer there.

And with the grief, the rage comes. Rage at the loss of potential futures that are dying before they were even born, rage at opportunities missed, rage at a past that will never find closure. The hope that kept her going, for all that she knew that is was probably futile, shatters and with its' remains fuels an incandescent fury that overwhelms everything she is. The last thing she feels before the maelstrom of her wrath rips her apart are hot tears coursing down her cheeks.

Over the years, Kuro has seen how deeply her life has become entwined with Ozai's, for better or worse. He has noticed the bracelet of braided dark hair she has started to wear and he figured it had to be some of the former Fire Lords', which she had woven into a keepsake. He knew she would take the news badly. He had expected the tears. But he hadn't expected the tears to start collecting in the air between them, instead of falling to the ground. He hadn't expected them to start spinning, slowly at first, and, as her eyes grow dead and vacant, faster and faster. There are ominous rumbles coming from the direction of the garden and the bath and his mouth goes dry as he remembers that both have spring-fed pools. He turns and runs, barely escaping the waves that come crashing into the room, already bearing the debris of smashed furniture and decorations with them.

Thankfully, as a steward, he knows where Lord Zuko and his entourage can be found at this time of day and hopefully, as a head steward, he can count on the guards to let him through without much fuss. His feet fly over the costly marble tiles and more than one person leisurely strolling through the corridors is rudely shoved aside as he passes. It takes him only a fifth of the time it normally would to get to the big pagoda at the edge of the palace gardens. It still seems to long.

The spirits of luck are smiling at him though, for talking to the Fire Lord are some of the Southern Water Tribe, including their waterbender, Lady Katara.

Eyebrows go up as he almost collapses in front of the group, panting heard, hair dishevelled, a few superficial scratches on his arms, where he was hit by debris, bleeding sluggishly.

"Berserk…waterbender…" he gasps. "Former slave….south wing. Old quarters….of…"

Before he can finish, the group is already moving.

As he runs, Zuko silently curses his father. He has been doing that a lot lately and the fact that his father just died does not alleviate the anger he feels for the man. Ozai has built an empire built on hatred and tyranny and Zuko keeps stumbling over things his father has set up or done that turn his stomach. Hearing that his father had kept a personal pleasure slave in his quarters was just one bit of bad news amongst many others. He was glad when one of the head stewards, Kuro, reported to him that the lady seemed to be adjusting surprisingly well. And now she has snapped after all. Zuko prays that she won't have gone as mad as that old waterbender, Hama, that Katara, Sokka and Aang had to fight on their journey.

It's hard work, keeping up with a firebender and a waterbender who use their powers to speed up their flight. Hakoda manages though, as the years of fighting have honed his strength and endurance. The same goes for Bato, who is running side by side with him. The palace is huge and it takes them a few minutes, but they can already hear the crashing and roaring from far away. They arrive at something that must have been the entryway to a large room or a small hall. It's hard to tell as the wall has been partially torn down and it's hard to see through the torrent of water that is spinning inside. As he watches, the water freezes and with a resounding boom, he can hear rocks split as the frozen water cracks the walls where it has seeped between the blocks. Then the water liquefies once more and resumes its mad-dash spinning, taking the wreckage with it. It's difficult to hear over the din, but Katara's shouting something about someone being inside the room and as he watches, his daughter bends a doorway into the torrential flood and they slip inside.

Her back is turned to them, but the form revealed by the soaked through dress tells Hakoda that it's a woman and he is surprised. What Southern Water Tribe waterbenders there are, he thought accounted for, either dead or returned home. The Northern Water Tribe would never have trained a woman to wreak the kind of havoc that is reluctantly abating around them, thanks to Katara wresting control from the dishevelled stranger. And then, as she turns, she is a stranger no more. Dark brown hair that should be wavy, but has been pulled straight by its own weight, it has grown so long. Bright blue eyes and sharp cheekbones that match his own. He thought her dead. Going by the darkness that shadows her eyes, she is, but he calls out to her nevertheless.

"KIAN!"

And in a heartbeat, her eyes blaze to life and her face twists in a snarl so full of blind rage that he takes a step back, stunned. A sharp flick of her wrist turns the water droplets that spin in the air between them into an icy dagger that flies at him faster than he can blink. He expects it to kill him, he has seen his death in her eyes, but it stops abruptly in front of his throat, humming with menace. The tip of it has drawn a few drops of his blood and the blade seems….hungry.

Her voice resembles more the growl of a wild animal than human speech, and yet her words are painfully clear. "Don't you DARE come near me. Don't you DARE touch me. I don't EVER want to see you again, do you hear me, Hakoda?"

Then his sister closes her eyes and he watches helplessly as her form crumples to the ground in front of him.

* * *

**Author's closing comment:** Yes, I'm evil and I wrote an open end to this one. But for those of you who want to see what happens afterwards, the next vignette is already almost finished and only needs a little polishing.

Also, a GREAT many thanks to those of you who left reviews. I immensely enjoy discussing stories with other people, be they my own or other author's works, so reading your insights into what's going on is a helluva lot of fun.

**To ****Rushing'Beauty'Wonder: **Here's some more, as you requested. I hope you find it to your liking. And no, not Katara's mom, but your guess was incredibly close! I like some good old-fashioned angst and drama, and it's always more painful if the hits are close to home. ^_^

**To femensqueterror****: ***g* Once I watched Avatar, I really wanted to read some good Ozai fic, but to my chagrin (and as it seems to yours too) those are few and far in between. And then this little "Do-it-yourself" plot-bunny came along. I very much enjoyed your insights into Kian, as they were spot-on and I'm glad that in the first vignette, she turned out as interesting as I wanted her to be. And yes, Ozai is mostly amoral and inhumane, but, as his baby picture found by the GAang on Ember Island proves, this wasn't always the case. Also, to kinda quote Katara (although she says it in respect to Zuko), he's "not as much of a jerk as he could be". For example, though life in Fire Nation Prisons is rough and there is a certain amount of abuse going on, they aren't Nazi concentration camps either. And although Ozai's plan to burn the Earth Kingdom when he becomes Phoenix King marks an all time low for him, he still sees this horrendous act as a means to an end to subdue his enemies that, and not because he gets his jollies from torturing others (uhm….the thing with Kian is a bit of a special thing and does involve jollies *blushes*…but then, this too is somewhat of a means to an end as he uses pain to pressure her into submission.)

**To sunnygirl13:** Well, here and now, Ozai could only get a faint hint at realizing what he has done. To fully grasp the situation, he'd need to be able feel compassion and have at least a bit of empathy. Since he never bothered to develop either as he considers both a weakness, he's still kinda blind to the full impact of what he has done. But….


	3. Drifting with the breeze

**Summary:**

After Ozai's defeat, Iroh and his brother's former slave meet for a little chat and a cup of tea.

**Author's note: **

Pairing Ozai/OC.

Het.

Starts about 3 months after A:TLA. Contains flashbacks.

Sequel to "Owned by Fire" and "Scattered by the wind", but (again) can also be read as a stand-alone vignette.

**Warnings:** Mention of slavery; humiliation, non-con, NC-17.

* * *

**IMPORTANT :**

NOT death-fic, despite how things might look for a while. Everybody gets out alive.

* * *

"Did I…..did I hurt anyone? I can't remember…..I….they…I'm sorry."

She cast him a short glance, her blue eyes rimmed red, then looked down again, head bowed; unmoving but for her hands that fluttered in her lap like a dying bird.

Iroh did not answer right away, instead handing her some tea. Steam rose from the brightly painted cup, playfully curling in the autumn breeze; at odds with the sombre mood. Holding the cup stilled her hands, but from her tense posture, Iroh could tell that tea and a friendly ear would not suffice to solve this problem.

He sighed wistfully. To reach the top of a mountain, one had often to walk strenuous paths.

When Ozai had been found dead in his prison cell, Zuko had recalled Iroh from Ba Sing Se immediately. That had been three days ago. The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, four days after the death; enough time for each of the elements to release its' hold on the dead man's spirit and soul.

Iroh had spent the days since his return being busy indeed. He had gone out for supper with Ming, the pretty prison guard who had been so kind to him during the few months where he himself had been imprisoned and who had, until a few days ago, also guarded his brother. He had spent endless hours in the prison's kitchen, trying to wheedle the recipe for Moo-Sow Stew from the head cook. He had played many, many games of Pai-Sho with anybody he could badger into a game. And yet, so far, all his delicate investigations and his careful questioning had yielded no hint of there being foul play involved in his brother's death.

So now he was having tea with Ozai's former pleasure slave, who, upon hearing of Ozai's death, had completely lost it and wrecked his brother's sumptuous bedroom, using water-bending skills nobody had known she possessed. It had only been thanks to the swift on-scene arrival of the some southern water-tribe members, including their own water-bender, Katara, that further catastrophe had been averted.

He gestured to a delicate porcelain dish filled with pastries, which was sitting on the tiny lacquer table between them.

"Please: Have a sweet biscuit with your tea. There is nothing you need to worry yourself about."

After all, the cut on Hakoda's throat where she had nearly sliced his jugular had been small and wasn't really worth mentioning.

Hesitant, but obedient to his request, his guest picked one of the sugary wafers sprinkled with candied ginger. They were quite good and went well with the ginseng tea.

Iroh shuffled the silk cushion on which he sat around a bit to make himself more comfortable and took a moment to appreciate the beauty of the sun setting beyond the jagged mountains surrounding the capital. The small part of the palace gardens where he had set up everything for their meeting was shielded from prying eyes and ears by a copse of ornamental maple bushes, their leaves a riot of russet and gold. It was quiet but for the chirping of a few cicadas. Soon the leaves would start too fall and winter would be here.

Winter had also been approaching when he met his current guest for the first time. How many years ago was that? Seven? Or was it eight?

...It had been almost exactly a year after the event that had marked the beginning of the darkest period in his life…..

His son's funeral had been held in view of the snow-capped peaks, not too far from the outer wall of Ba Sing Se, breached a mere week ago.

Four days before, Iroh's world has still been intact. He had even been in a good mood that morning, studying the maps and discussing tactics with his Lieutenant Generals. They had besieged Ba Sing Se for 600 days already, but victory was sure. He had felt it in his bones; had seen it in his strategy unfolding like the bloom of a perfect chrysanthemum lily. He had been laughing at a particularly dirty joke a young officer had made when there was a commotion at the entry to the war room. It had irritated him. He had looked up to see what the emergency was and had seen the attendant bearing his son's swords. For as long as this siege had lasted, Lu Ten had NEVER parted with those, even going so far as to keep them beside his bed. In those few heartbeats, Iroh's whole world had come apart.

Watching the wind carry his son's ashes to the skies, Iroh had asked himself for the first time if the chance at conquering Ba Sing Se was worth the price they were paying.

In the mornings that followed, when the blessed oblivion that sleep had brought ceded to the agony of knowing he would never see his son again, he began to realize that it wasn't. So, shortly after the funeral, he had declared the siege of Ba Sing Se a failure and had sent his army home.

He had not followed his men back.

In Omashu, the first signs of tender green had been sprouting from the trees when King Bumi traded tea and rock candy and stories of loss with a golden-eyed, scraggly traveller.

The midnight sun was high in the heavens above the Northern Water Tribe's main city as Master Pakku played Pai Sho with the same traveller. They spent days playing and philosophising about how to live on when a part of you had gone missing forever and which things in the world were worth living for.

At the Eastern Air Temple, apples had been hanging in the trees, ripe and sweet, but time had yet done little to dull the pain of his loss when Piandao, the younger brother of an old schoolmate had brought him even more bitter news: his father was dead, his sister-in-law exiled and his younger brother had taken the throne that should have been Iroh's.

A year before, the Dragon of the West would have been furious at the treachery and would have raised an army to claim back the throne which was rightfully his, all without thinking twice about it. Now, he found that he just didn't care anymore.

He had only returned home to see if maybe he could salvage something from the smoldering ruins of his family. He didn't need a soothsayer to figure out that a happily ever after probably wasn't in the stars for them, but he had to try.

Ozai had certainly been making that difficult. Iroh actually had had to file a request for an audience to speak to his brother. The Master of Protocol had kept him waiting for a few days, his smiles lopsided and fake as he reassured Iroh that the delay was simply due to his exalted Highness, the Fire Lord, being very, very busy. When the request had been finally granted, Iroh hadn't been summoned to the Throne Room at midday, as court ritual had demanded, but to Ozai's private quarters, late in the evening.

The new Fire Lord had obviously thought that publicly humiliating his elder brother was a good way of driving the point home that General Iroh was out of favour and no longer in line of succession.

When Iroh had arrived home, his quarters in the family tract of the palace had been cleared out and all his furniture and his possessions had been moved to a small, slightly derelict mansion in a part of the Capitol, where a lot of old military commanders and minor nobles had their residencies.

On the evening of the audience, Ozai hadn't sent a palanquin to pick Iroh up, but then, Iroh hadn't expected one. Instead, Iroh had walked all the way to the private quarters of the Fire Lord, a suite of rooms within the palace, connected by little gardens. There was a music room, a library, a room for physical fitness, several living and sitting rooms and baths, a strategy room, …anything the sovereign of a country might desire for his work and his comfort. Iroh had expected to be shown into the library or maybe the strategy room. He had not expected his brother to receive him in his bedroom, a room which had also been their father's.

When he had been small, Iroh had played hide-and-seek in that bedroom with Ilah, their mother, hiding himself behind the rich crimson and gold tapestries or beneath the huge bed with its' scarlet and copper drapes.

As bedrooms went, it was large enough to hold a sizable orgy. Right then, apart from himself, it had held only two people: his brother, who had been comfortably reclined on an opulently padded diwan, and a young woman, who had been kneeling right beside Ozai on the ground. She had been naked except for the artfully tied ropes holding her in position, accentuating her breasts and spreading her knees as far apart as possible. Her hands had been tied behind her back and her eyes downcast.

Not completely able to mask his surprise, Iroh had inhaled sharply. He had anticipated further humiliation, knowing his brother's need to cement his superior position. He had not anticipated being made part of another's degradation.

A short glance was all the acknowledgement Ozai had given his brothers' entrance. Instead he had focused on the girl, whom he had been feeding a series of fat red grapes from a lacquer bowl. Grape for grape, he had commanded her to open her mouth and she had obeyed, her body rigid as a marble pillar. The first grape she had chewed furiously and Ozai had janked her head back, his hand buried in her artfully arranged braids. He had bent down to whisper in her ear: "Easy now. I want you to savour these grapes. Suck them. Lick them. And then carefully swallow. You're going to need the practice".

Iroh had cursed the fact that he had such fine hearing.

Finally Ozai had turned to his brother.

"Can you believe she tried to bite me only yesterday? Obedient slaves are so hard to come by these days, and this one is still a bit of a barbarian." Ozai had smirked, his gaze sharp on Iroh. The meaning had been clear: was it equally hard to come by obedient brothers?

Iroh had raised his eyebrows, the epitome of innocent questioning. "Maybe she doesn't like red grapes?"

"Hah." Ozai had smirked. "She will learn to like whatever I choose for her." And as the smirk deepened into something darker, Iroh had felt an icy chill tingle down his spine. Letting the servants find him drunk and disorderly for the next few mornings had suddenly seemed like a bright idea. Rumours that his son's death had been too much for him had been already spreading and all he needed to do was to confirm them. After all, he had to show his brother that not only pleasure slaves could learn their lesson.

Without hesitating, he had bowed deeply to his brother…..his sovereign. "I'm sure she will."

The appreciative smile Ozai had given him had utterly failed to reach his eyes. "Yes, she most DEFINITELY will. Dismissed. The head steward will see to it that you are comfortably settled into your new home and that you are paid a weekly stipend, as is your right."

Seven years since that night. Maybe eight. Three or four of them spent playing the sedate, self-indulgent, slightly absentminded old man, broken by the loss of his son. Three years travelling the world with Zuko, the one good thing that remained of his family, raising and teaching they boy like he was his son. Almost one year chasing the Avatar. A few months fighting openly against the malevolent kraken the Fire Nation had become and helping the Avatar and his friends to defeat his brother. About three months helping his nephew and the Avatar reshape the Fire Nation and with it the world.

And yet, the few short moments he was now spending to drink tea with the woman who used to be his brother's pleasure slave seemed long by comparison. Maybe because seeing her brought back so many unanswered questions and regrets.

"I remember you". Startled by the whispered words, Iroh looked up from his reverie.

She was looking into the distance, gazing at the setting sun just as he had a moment ago. "I DO remember you."

He bowed deeply to her, hands on his knees. "Please, accept my most profound apology for being part of your embarrassment all those years ago."

For a few heartbeats, her dark mood broke and she laughed a bit. "It was actually a relief to have you there. Never would I have expected someone from the Fire Nation to blush while witnessing my humiliation. Least of all the brother of the one hurting me."

She grew solemn again. "I would actually like to thank you. If I hadn't seen that there were still people in the world who cared, Fire Nation people, I'm not sure if I would have made it past that first year with him."

"Heh….well…". Iroh scratched the back of his head.

She turned to him, looking him straight in the eye, something she hadn't done before.

"Is he really dead? I think I remember the head steward telling me that he died, but sometimes I still see and hear things that aren't there."

Iroh looked at the cup in his hand as if he could find a different answer there. "It is true."

"How?"

"We don't know. He was found dead in his prison cell. We suspect he might have been murdered, but so far, our investigations have turned out nothing suspicious. It seems like he just willed himself to die."

She closed her eyes, sorrow written into every line of her face, and silent tears started to seep from between her lashes. To his chagrin, Iroh took note that his teacup, filled with deliciously warm tea just a few seconds ago, was now rimmed with frost, ice forming fast on the surface. But to Iroh's relief, the destruction she had wrought a few days ago wasn't replicated.

Tea and cookies had become insufficient to deal with the situation and so Iroh left his comfy cushion to sit beside her. He gently patted her back, making mellow, soothing noises, and she leaned into his touch until he was cradling her in his arms. Silent crying turned into quiet little sobs and he could feel the wetness of her tears seeping through his robe where her head rested on his shoulder.

"I miss him." His robe muffled her words, but his hearing was as fine as ever, so it didn't matter.

It took Iroh a moment before he could answer, and he had to clear his throat, which had suddenly gone tight, before he could do so.

"He was my brother…and I miss him too. Most people wouldn't guess that there were things about him that anybody COULD miss…but I remember him as he was when we were younger. Many of the good things that I now see in my nephew I used to see in him too. Heh…..can you believe, as a boy, he was kind and a little shy. He liked calligraphy and learning, and as young men, we spent hours in the library, plotting and planning the things we would do when I ruled and he was my most trusted advisor. He had some amazing plans for reforming the school system, so every kid would have a chance at getting a higher education."

The memories of better times became more vivid with the telling and Iroh couldn't keep a bittersweet smile from his face.

"I remember the morning I left for the Earth Kingdom. Ozai saw me off at the docks, to wish me well. He was holding Zuko's hand and little Azula was riding on his hip because she wanted to say "bye" to me too, but she was too sleepy to walk that early in the morning, so Ozai carried her. I guess I was absent from home too much and too confident in the Fire Nations' infallibility…and so I missed it when my brother completely stopped caring about his family and about the good things in life and became entirely absorbed by his quest for power. I think I will always regret not looking out for him more. But then, at that time, our family and our nation were still blinded to the truth."

The old general sighed deeply. "I had always hoped that one day, my brother would find his way. End the war. Restore peace to the world….and to his family. I wanted my brother to live."

She had listened intently and her tears had subsided as Iroh shared his memories of his brother with her. As Iroh finishes, she righted herself, rubbing her splotched and tear-streaked face with her hands. Iroh dug in the sleeves of his robes and came up with a handkerchief, which he offered to her. She accepted it and loudly blew her nose.

"Thanks for understanding." Her smile was a bit unsteady, but there. "No one else here would".

Iroh quirked an eyebrow at her. "Hmm…especially not your family?"

She laughed, a dry, mirthless sound. "Especially not my family. Least of all my brother. Being the whore of the man who nearly destroyed my people is bad enough….but admitting to loving him? I can just picture it."

Her face pulled into a bright, cheery grimace. "Ooohhhh….Ozai was a TOTAL beast, but, ya know, he could be SO sweet an' luvin'….ESPECIALLY after beatin' me up a little, but really, such a nice guy when he felt like it."

She dropped the fake cheeriness and snorted derisively. "If I'm lucky, they'll think my time as your brothers' slave has driven me mad. But I know I won't be able to quietly listen to them celebrating his death and pretend to share their joy. Sooner or later, they would KNOW that I miss him, loved him…and they'd feel betrayed. And I don't want to see distrust and worry and sadness grow in my brothers' eyes as days go by. But I can't lie to him either."

She fell silent for a moment and the chill in the air sharpened. Finally, she hissed like a cat that had had its' tail trodden on. "I'm not ever going to be rid of Ozai now, am I? His curse will haunt me 'til the day I die."

She looked aside, jaw rigid and nose curled in distaste. "I knew I had some hope of dealing with my feelings for him as long as he was alive. I hoped that one day, I would be ready to face him again, whole enough to tell him that I was over him and all he did to me. I hoped that one day, I wouldn't care anymore whether he had been able to change into the good man he could have been or not. But now he's dead and I'll be forever stuck in a prison of "maybes" and "could-have-beens"".

Inwardly, Iroh sighed in relief. If anything, in all the years of dodging his brother's spies (while secretly masterminding a conspiracy or two of his own in order to help good people defend themselves against the Fire Nation), his inherent skill at reading people had been honed to perfection, and he trusted his judgement on this one: She WASN'T involved in his brother's death as he had feared she might be. For that, her grief at the loss of his brother was too genuine, as was her wish for Ozai to be still alive.

He had been suspicious at first, when the search of her possessions, which he had ordered, had yielded detailed reports on the developments at court since the defeat of his brother; hidden in a secret compartment in one of her trunks and written by her hand. She could have been a spy. She could have been an assassin. She could have been a madwoman, secretly using her waterbending skills to murder her tormentor. Her rampage in his brother's quarters the day of Ozai's death certainly hadn't spoken for her sanity, and it might have been the continuation of violence secretly enacted earlier at the prison.

It would have been sad indeed, but not unthinkable, that during her enslavement, Hakoda's sister had gone as mad as that other Waterbender, Hama, that Katara had told him about.

To his relief, all he has found is a young woman, hurt, confused, but ready to deal with the cards the fates have dealt her. For all that her feelings for his brother are twisted and warped by years of abuse, Iroh considered the anger she had shown at what Ozai has done to her and others as a very healthy reaction.

So Iroh smiled, poured both of them another cup of tea, which he firebent back to the proper temperature. She took the cup he offered and he amicably patted her elbow.

"Ahhh….do not be too hasty in thinking that a broken past, like a broken mirror, can not be repaired. I have learned myself that time does much to heal what you believe cannot ever be made whole again. Your family loves you and you love your family, and that is a strong bridge that can help people cross even the deepest chasm."

"Hah! You loved your brother and it didn't help him, did it?" An angry little furrow appeared between her brows, but snarling and spitting like a platypusbear, she wasn't anymore, so Iroh figured things might go well after all.

"You are right, but who knows? Maybe it was only because his time was cut short. If he had lived….there ARE things that can change a man." Iroh heaved another sigh, even deeper than the one earlier. Concerning the circumstances of his brother's death, he had gained all the knowledge he needed…but there were other things he needed to know, things he has asked himself since the last time he saw his brother.

He looked her straight in the eye, golden-brown meeting sky-blue, and popped the question.

"Tell me, when my brother went to fight the Avatar, was there any good left in him?"

Her shoulders sagged and she looked down at the hands clasped in her lap.

"No. In the end, all that was left was a monster that gloried in bringing the world to heel. Destroying everything it touched. He was cold, inside and out; full of grim pride and satisfaction at finally ruling the world. But there was no spark, no joy. He was miserable….and he didn't even notice, too blinded by what he thought was his brightly shining destiny. He chose power and glory over the pleasures of calligraphy, over the love of his son and over you and over me. And you can't tell me those simple things didn't make him happy, because I saw him smile when he was with me and I saw him smile when he told me about how he watched you and Zuko build sandcastles, just like you used to build sandcastles with him, and his smile was warm and kind and so fucking HAPPY…..but being happy JUST WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM."

She was shaking with rage now, her hands balled to fists.

"There was a time where it wasn't good enough for me either. I only learned to cherish it after I had lost what I loved most: my son." Iroh said softly.

She looked at him, her expression fierce. "And Ozai had only scorn for his. He loved no one. The only things he cherished were power and domination."

Iroh glanced up at the sky, where pale blue was darkening to a soft purple. She was right. Even if pushed by circumstance, people had a choice. When and where had the Fire Nation and his brother started to make the wrong ones?

He cleared his throat. "Growing up in the Fire Nation, especially in the royal household, it was difficult to learn to appreciate love and happiness. We were taught that both were dreadful weaknesses, and to be avoided at all cost."

She opened her mouth to respond to that, probably something not very flattering, but Iroh held up his hand, asking for her permission to continue. She shut her mouth, which settled into a grim line, but let him continue.

"From the days my people first settled here, this has always been a rough realm to live in. There is not much land where you can plant and harvest food. The sea is often stormy and fishing is a dangerous business. There are earthquakes. Volcano outbreaks. Here, just the strong used to survive. And because strength was essential to our survival, only the strongest were allowed to rule. The members of our family have always been famous for their strength, their self-confidence and their audacity. However, with these traits it is the same as with fire itself: if not tempered by compassion and honour they will destroy everything within their reach. And we lost both the moment our grandfather, Sozin, attacked and wiped out the airbenders. It poisoned our family and our people. I was only lucky to realize in time. My brother and many others were not."

"That's an explanation…but no excuse."

"No, it isn't. But maybe understanding will help both of us heal the wounds the past has inflicted on us."

"Maybe. But what about the future?" Her look was challenging.

A slightly mischievous smile crept onto Iroh's face…..and camped there. "Hmmm….after the funeral, I will be going back to Ba Sing Se, to my tea shop. It is very busy these days and good servers of tea are hard to find! If you would like, you could come with me. It would give you time to make peace with the past, and I would be happy to have a server as pretty as you at the Jasmine Dragon."

That got Iroh an eyebrow quirked at him. "An accomplished waterbender, certainly accomplished enough to blast your brother's private quarters to smithereens….as a tea server?"

She slowly sipped some of her tea. "You know, Ozai used to curse the fact that you were so much older than him….and that many of your friendships and alliances had been forged long before his birth, so it was very, very difficult to find out any details about the espionage network he was certain that you were running."

She gestured towards the sheets of paper that were peeking out from under the cushion Iroh had left when he came over to sit by her side.

"And reading the reports I wrote to keep myself occupied? And then going so far as to bring them to this meeting?" The snort she gave was not very ladylike. "Only a tea server? Or were you planning on using me as a bit more than that in case this little chat went the way you hoped it would? I am not stupid, GENERAL Iroh, Dragon of the West!"

Iroh laughed heartily. She was as sharp as he had suspected and she had found him out. "Yes. A tea server. And an agent for my spy ring. The peace my nephew and the Avatar are building will need protecting, and I think you amongst others will be very well suited to the job."

She huffed a little, as if put out by the fact that Iroh had dared to even question her support for those who had defeated her master, her lover, her tormentor. But then she grinned at Iroh and nodded enthusiastically.

The easy bits taken care of, Iroh grew sombre once more. "It is Fire Nation tradition, that on the night before the funeral, the family will sit with the dead, to bid them good bye. Maybe you would like to sit with my brother's remains tonight?"

"Yes….yes I would." And for the first time, her smile was warm, if a little wistful.

* * *

**Author's note:** Yes I know. For this chapter, I've changed the grammatical tense from present to simple past. It seemed more fitting as this chapter is less introspective than the previous ones were.

**To sunnygirl13:** *g* Once again, thank you for the kind review. I'm pleased as punch that you enjoyed the last chapter and I hope this one will meet with your approval too!

**To Spark10111:** Well, this time I only needed two weeks to update, so you didn't have to wait too long ^_~ Also, I'm incredibly happy that you liked the story so far.

**Soundtrack: **I'm trying to put together a soundtrack for this story. If you have any ideas what kinds of songs would go well withone of the scenes, then I'd love to hear about it! For this chapter, I think "Drought" by Vienna Teng would work quite well. To quote part of the lyrics:

"Summer move forward and stitch me the fabric of fall

Wrap life in the brilliance of death to humble us all

How sweet is the day

I'm craving a darkness

As I sit tucked away with my back to the wall

And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

And the landscape of merry and desperate drought

How much longer dear angels

Let winterlight come

And spread your white sheets over my empty house"

So, what do you think?


	4. Burnt to Ashes  part I

**Disclaimer: **Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary: **Ozai is no longer a part of her life. Trying to come to terms with that, she reflects on the past, on how it all started.

**Author's note: **

Pairing Ozai/OC.

Het.

Takes place about 3 months after A:TLA. Contains a flashback that start 18 years before the series.

Sequel to the previous chapters, but can also be read as a stand-alone.

**Warnings:** Some swearing, that's all.

* * *

**IMPORTANT :**

NOT death-fic, despite how things might look for a while. Everybody gets out alive.

* * *

She doesn't want to say goodbye.

The room is underground and cold, a good thing, given that the climate in the Fire Nation is mostly warm and that ritual demands a waiting period of four days.

A hall, hewn from rock black as midnight, the ceiling low, walls bare…it should have felt like a tomb. Instead, it is oddly comfortable, with padded benches upholstered in fabrics of cream and gold and red. A warm glow comes from an oil-lamp sitting in a corner, its' small flame giving off more light than it should have. In the next corner, there is a large skylight from where one can see the stars, their twinkling hinting at the skies that arch in an endless expanse above.

There is a calm, musical click-clock…..click-clock of wood on stone filling the room with its song, so much like the string of moments passing that make up a human life. It's coming from the third corner, where a small water basin sits, fed by a wooden spout set on a hinge. As the spout fills with water, it tilts with a click and then pours its contents into the basin, only to right itself and hit the stone set under the spouts' rear end with a clear, hollow "clock".

In the last corner, the roots of a tree have grown through the walls, their thickly corded strength telling of the lush beauty of the tree above ground which guards the entrance to the underground room.

She envies the tree, for it has kept its roots, while she has lost hers.

In the centre of the room lies the thing that she has dreaded most for the last few days: irrefutable proof that he is gone.

People always say that death is like sleep, only deeper. They are wrong.

In life, even when sleeping, the intensity and strength he had radiated so casually had dominated any room. Neither of that can be felt now. The lifeless form laid out on the stone slab in the centre of the room is….empty.

The man who has ruled her life for the last eight years is dead. And for all that he has turned her life into a living hell, he had also given her a glimpse at heaven. It hadn't been worth it, but sweet water, how she aches to see that bit of heaven again. And now she will long for it in futility for the rest of her life and she will never find out if that bit of heaven had just been a pretty lie or not. Spirits, how furious she is at former Fire Lord Ozai for dying!

So far she has just sat on one of the thickly padded benches that are lined up against the walls, one of the thick, complimentary blankets wrapped around her to keep away the chill. The room is empty but for her. Iroh had said he'd come by later, since there are still things he urgently has to take care of, but she knows he will be there to sit with his brother.

Ozai had always envisioned himself the supreme leader who would lead his people to glory: respected, held in awe and feared.

Never would he have imagined that when he died, the only people to keep him company during his wake would be his former pleasure slave and the brother he has cheated out of the throne and later imprisoned as a traitor. The Phoenix King has flown too close to the sun, burned his wings and fallen deep indeed.

Slowly, she gets used to the thought of a world without him, but she isn't ready yet to go over to his body and take a last look. First, she has to come to terms with the fact, that after this, she will never see his face again or talk to him. Granted, she won't miss the harsh orders, the restraint of her freedom or the beatings.

But the tender kisses, the pillow-talk where they used to share memories, ideas, opinions….and what about his all too rare and precious smiles? What about those times where she witnessed him act not only with strength, but also with honour and compassion? They had been few, but they had been THERE.

The beauty and wonder of those moments was like a shining star guiding her through the darkness. Over time though, her skies had turned dark. She will never find out if the light could have been reborn from the ashes of his failure.

And neither will she find out if he has…at some time….maybe….actually cared a bit about her.

Her love for him has almost killed her. It still might. Her only chance at survival lies in smothering whatever yearning for him is left in her heart. She has to try. And the day she feels nothing for him anymore but hate, she might be able to return home, to her family.

Funny…if it hadn't been for the war, unleashed by Sozin, continued by Azulon and perfected by Ozai himself, she would still be living with her family, with her tribe.

Maybe she'd be married to a man she loved.

Maybe she would have children.

…..How strange to think that in a world without war, she would never have had to leave home.

And in a world without war, a member of the ruling family of the Fire Nation and someone he used to call "a dirty, uncivilized Water Tribe Peasant" would never have met.

She leans her back against the wall and draws the blanket closer around herself. Her eyes rest on the remains of her lover, but the memories of the past are what she sees:

It takes a lot to get her laid-back, fun-loving, kind-hearted older brother to yell, let alone scream at someone. But when she proposes to the elders that she leave the tribe, alone, Hakoda fights it tooth and nail.

She wants to leaves so she can search for the other waterbenders of her tribe, captured by the Fire Nation long ago and still imprisoned somewhere. If their tribe learns where they are, they might be able to free them.

However, this is not the only reason she wants to leave.

They all know that eventually, word will get out that once more, the Winter Wolf Tribe has a waterbender and then the Fire Nation will stage a raid on their village. It doesn't matter to the Fire Nation that she is inexperienced and will remain so without a teacher.

Hakoda doesn't want her to go, and so he stubbornly claims that they will be able to keep the secret and that she is making progress on her own just fine and that a quest to find the captured waterbenders is futile.

They have a screaming match then and there, right in what remains of the village's meeting hall.

But in the end, even though she is only sixteen, the elders agree. Her brother doesn't. After the elders pass their verdict, he just turns wordlessly and runs.

Fighting with him is painful enough. The thought of leaving him, knowing he doesn't understand, knowing he is angry at her, is unbearable and so she runs after him.

She only catches up with him when he has almost reached his favourite hiding place, a deep hollow in the ice at the foot of the beached Fire Nation Navy wreck. She grabs his sleeve, but he won't look at her. So she keeps pulling at his sleeve, crying and begging him not to do this to her, that it is difficult enough already, to please, please understand that she HAS to do this.

When he finally turns to face her, the anguish in her brother's face hits her like an ice floe crashing into a canoe. It is only the third time ever that she has seen him cry.

His voice is somewhere between a hoarse growl and a whisper as he responds to her.

"I know you have to go Kian, and I can even understand why. But you can't just break our family apart like that. If you must go, then let me go with you!"

"Hakoda, no! The tribe can do without me….It can't do without you. You're the one dad is training to be his successor and if anything happens to him, the tribe will need your skills as a leader. And what about Kya? You just asked her to marry you, you can't leave her behind like that."

"But how can you leave me and mom and dad behind? We need you Kian."

That got her mad at him. "How can I leave? I love you more than anything! You are my entire world and I can't sleep anymore for nightmares of the Fire Nation raiding our tribe. Every time I close my eyes, I see you dying, trying to fight them. I see Dad dying. And Mom. Bato. Akko. Temo. Kya. And all I can do afterwards is to wait for death to come for me too, because they shut me into a cell and keep me chained up for the rest of my life. Running is the only chance I have. If nobody knows I'm a waterbender, then nobody can tell. I'll be safer out there, wandering strange lands, then I'll be living with my family….and you'll be safer without me too."

Halfway through her angry outburst, she has started crying again, and now sobs are wracking her body so badly, she can barely hold herself upright. For a moment, Hakoda just stands there, face stony and eyes filled with infinite grief, then he pulls her to him and holds on to her, hard.

They spend the night huddled together in his hideout beneath the shadow of the wrecked Fire Nation ship, a small fire warming them, talking, remembering old stories and their adventures together and he gives her advice about everything he thinks might be useful to her. He teaches her his special knot and how to undo it and when she gets into her canoe the next morning, ready to leave, his favourite knife is firmly tucked into her belt.

For the first few months, her plan is successful, at least partially. She makes it to the Earth Kingdom, fishing and scavenging to keep her belly full and selling some of her bounty in various villages when she needs to stock up on other supplies.

Her luck changes when she comes to an Earth Kingdom city sitting in a river delta that has recently been over-run by the Fire Nation. At first, there are no problems at all. She is just one peasant amongst many, peddling her goods on the market. She keeps her ears open for rumours about other waterbenders and to her delight, she hits pay-dirt.

One of the servants serving in the household of the local Fire Nation Commander, shopping for fish and vegetables, tries to impress one of her fellow food-sellers in order to get a better price and lets it slip that his master had been the Chief Warden in a prison holding waterbenders. So, very discreetly, she starts scouting the Fire Nation Commander's household and the garrison, where he spends most of his time. It takes her almost a month, but then she has the routines of the servants and the guards down pat. Hell, she knows most of their names and what they like for breakfast. She has even slipped into one of the guard-houses and has gotten a glimpse at the maps of the garrison, which are kept there. And she learns that the Commander keeps all his records in his office at the garrison.

Guard's schedules, several escape routes, where to find the keys for the document drawers…young and maybe over-confident, she thinks she had figured it all out.

Under the cover of night, she has gotten into the office and out again, the pertinent files slipped securely into her small back-pack, when a ball of fire hits the ground right in front of her. In a flash, she switches from sneaking from corner to corner to a flat out run, dodging and weaving around obstacles and corners like a rabbit. First towards the dark, badly lit corner at the garrison wall, where she has fixed a rope that would have helped her scale the wall. It has been cut down. She races for her second escape route, a small side-gate. Some of the guards use it to sneak out and meet their sweethearts in town and for that purpose, it should have been unlocked tonight. It isn't. Another fireball almost singes her hair.

Heart racing, the taste of fear acrid in her mouth, she heads for her third and last escape route, a privy set on the outer wall; the rapid footfalls of her pursuer too close for comfort. She almost shouts in triumph when she finds that her pursuer apparently hasn't thought to block this one. Reaching the privy, she just jumps over the beam people use to sit on, down the gap. Hours before, she has filled the pit with sacks of hay, nicked from a local stable, so that if she has to use this route, she won't get stuck in a malodorous mixture of piss and shit. It works. Sliding from the small mountain of hay-filled sacks, she snickers in relief, going so far as to give a short call of "Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-NAH!" into the direction of the walls.

From above, she can hear a rough young male voice cursing loudly.

She starts running again, heading towards the hills and the woods outside the borders of the town. A week ago, a small armada of Fire Nation Navy ships has docked in the harbour and she doesn't stand a chance of escaping them in her canoe. So she has "freed" an eel hound from the very same stable from which she has gotten the hay (eelhounds LOVE fish and befriending the animal hasn't been too hard) and has hidden it in the woods.

Behind her, she hears a faint "thump" as something large hits her impromptu haystack and she starts swearing up a blue streak. Even though her lungs have already started burning, she picks up her pace.

Hakoda, who got into trouble so often when they were kids that he was an expert at making a quick getaway, always told her "Don't look back when you're running. It'll only cost you time.".

So when she is tackled from behind, the eelhound a mere hundred feet away, she doesn't see it coming. The impact on the ground, even though it is amply padded by dry leaves, drives the breath from her body. For pain and lack of breath, she can't move and is helpless as her arms are wrenched behind her back and tied with tough leather strings. She coughs and rings for breath, thanking the spirits when sweet air finally fills her lungs once more.

"Dirty little thief." That same rough voice she has heard from the walls snarls in her ear and her stomach does a funny little flip-flop. Hands as rough as the voice turn her over and she starts struggling and kicking for all that she is worth. Her attacker just hisses when her foot connects with his shin, grazing it, and then brings his full body weight to bear to keep her pinned to the ground. To secure his position further, he wedges his elbow under her chin, the threat clear that he won't hesitate to lean on her wind-pipe if she continues to struggle.

"Let's get a look at you" he says, contempt hardening his tone, and a fire flares to life beside them.

She looks up into the most beautiful eyes she has ever seen, mesmerized by their rich golden colour. He is young, maybe twenty or so, but then, the Fire Nation likes to recruit them young. Straight nose, square chin, full, but not too full lips, high cheekbones. Strands of his rich sable hair have escaped from his topknot during the chase and now they frame his face in disarray.

Someone this good-looking, someone who makes butterflies flutter in her stomach just by looking at her, someone she wants to make babies with the moment she sees him, has NO right to be FIRE NATION. She hates him on sight.

"May your guts rot in the sun like five days old fish!" she spits at him. He doesn't answer.

When the fire lighted the scene for the first time, there was pure hatred in his eyes, turning his even features into a fearsome mask. The moment he gets a good look at her face, smeared with soot as it is, first something akin to shock creeps in and then his eyes soften.

The pressure on her wind-pipe eases as he pulls back his elbow. He gently starts to rub away the soot with his hand, his gaze burning into hers.

"You're a girl." A soft whisper.

The intimate touch of his fingers on her cheek reminds her uncomfortably of the fact that he is still lying on top of her, his hips touching hers, her breasts pressed to his chest. She can tell the moment he notices too, for his eyes go wide and he swallows, hard.

Her mouth goes dry. This is a bad, bad situation, and it is going in an even worse direction. Panicked, she snarls at him.

"Do the world a favour Fire Nation scum: choke on something. Maybe you'll start being worth something when your ashes fertilize the fields."

That gets her a response. His eyes turn icy and he sneers. He rolls down from her, gracefully landing on his feet and before she can even think about making another bid for freedom, he has his sword at her throat. He makes her get up, slowly, and then hobbles her feet too. Leading the eelhound by its tether, he escorts her back to town and from there into prison.

She doesn't see him again, but in the months that follow, he haunts her dreams every night.

The Fire Nation judge responsible for the district sentences her to 5 years in prison in a work-house in the colonies for theft and spying. They take her brother's knife from her.

Prison isn't too bad. If you work hard and keep you head down, the guards don't bother you much and neither do the other prisoners. She waits and watches. She doesn't use her waterbending. If anybody catches her doing it, and she doesn't manage to make good her get-away, it just would make her situation so much worse. In the end, her patience and restraint pay off. Almost three years into her sentence, she manages to escape when guards, squabbling over a game of dice, set the part of the prison where she is housed on fire. Weary and heart-sore, and despite logic telling her that this is a bad idea, she starts on a voyage home.

She is pretty much on the other side of the world, on foot, alone, trusting no-one, and it takes her a little less than two years to get home. The grin on Hakoda's face when she walks into the village is bright like the sun on fresh fallen snow and the bearlike hug he gives her almost breaks her ribs. She burrows her nose in the fur of his hood so he can't see her cry.

Her father embraces her, whispering "Welcome home. We missed you." into her ear and her mother berates her for being too thin and not eating right and then holds onto her like she just came back from the dead.

Kya and the rest of the village are there, happy, smiling, wanting to hear stories from her travels and she does her best to satisfy their curiosity without giving too much away of all the bad stuff she has had to face. She instantly falls in love with her a little over one year old nephew and his newborn sister. Surrounded by the people she loves and whom she has missed so badly, like a part of her heart had been torn out, she feels light as a feather, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders. But she knows she can't stay.

Knowing she can't win a second argument with her brother, now fully grown, so proud, so strong, she quietly slips away in the night.

By Fire Nation Army regulations, warrants and wanted posters are reserved for the most dangerous criminals. She is nothing but a petty thief, not worthy the attention, or so she thinks. Her way home has led her almost exclusively through Earth Kingdom territory, still free of the grasp of the Fire Nation. Now, once more pursuing her quest of finding the missing Southern Water Tribe waterbenders, she steps onto Fire Nation territory again for the first time in over two years. It is just a minor trading outpost and it shouldn't be too hard to sell some fish and some of the combs she has carved from whalebone. It takes less than five hours for her to get arrested as a runaway prisoner.

She expects to be sent back to prison, to serve out the rest of her sentence. It will be hard, but she tells herself she can do this; she can take another two years of being locked away. In retrospect, given that the Fire Nation is rather unforgiving of those that dare challenge its rule, it turns out her assumption is rather naïve. When she emerges from the hold of the Fire Nation Navy ship transporting her, she is no longer in one of the Colonies. She finds herself at the heart of the Fire Nation, smack in the middle of hostile territory.

The jailer smirks as he welds the slave rings shut around her wrists and ankles, and tells her she will live out the rest of her life as someone's property.

She is close to panicking, close to doing something stupid that will earn her a fate worse than death, but the man she is given to is a kindly old gentleman; a doctor who lives in one of the more remote villages and who needs a housekeeper and an assistant in his practice. He is grumpy at times, forgetful and he never treats her as anything but a useful tool that he needs to take care of so it will continue to function well, but all in all, to her surprise, she is rather enjoying herself.

The old man's arthritis and failing eye-sight no longer allow him to handle the more manual aspects of his profession, so by default, she becomes his student. She learns how to read chi lines, how to do acupressure and acupuncture, how to set bones and which herbs to use and how to prepare them to treat everything from pneumonia to wound-infections and hangovers. The old man also has a rather well-stocked if small library of medical texts. To her delight, she also finds a collection of rather dusty scrolls describing waterbending healing techniques there. It is not difficult to secretly start practicing on his or rather, as the years go by, her patients.

Some nights, she still dreams of the young man who captured her. Some mornings, she will wake up smiling; some, she will wake up bathed in cold sweat. She gets used to it.

* * *

**Author's note:**

"Burnt to Ashes" has its own completed little story arc, but it is so long, I have to break it up into several pieces. And since Christmas-time is rather busy, it might take me some time to put up the next bits.

Also, in the conversation between Hakoda and Kian there are several turns of phrase that also appear in the series, in the first episode of season three, where Katara confronts her father, the full anger and distress she feels about him leaving her and Sokka behind coming to the fore. He holds her and looks into the distance while she cries in his arms and some of the things he says sound to me like he is quoting / remembering a conversation he's had at some other time of his life.

**To Lauren:** Thank you very, very much for your review, it pretty much made my day! (The other reviews earlier did too by the way!)

You didn't say why you expected this story to be badly written and boring, but I'll make an educated guess: A lot of the stories on the 'net that feature the main bad-guy involved with an original character are just plain awful AND horrendous Mary-Sues, regardless of fandom. At least that's my experience.

I'm glad that I seem to have avoided that trap so far, and please, if I ever fall into it, feel free to kick me. Overall, in this case, I'm very, very happy that I managed to disappoint your expectations and I'm even happier that you enjoyed the story so far.

As for continuing it: This little plot-bunny has sunk its teeth into me to the bone and it doesn't look like it's going to let go any time soon. Plus, the rough versions of the next three chapters are already written and I currently have a bit of time to write, which wasn't the case with my other stories (ah…the joys of being a SAHM ^_^).


	5. Burnt to Ashes  part II

**Disclaimer:** Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:** Being a slave in the Fire Nation is not as bad as it seems….but then things get much, much worse.

**Author's note: **

Pairing Ozai/OC.

Het.

Flashback that starts 7 years before the series.

Sequel to the previous chapters, but following "Burnt to Ashes – part I", it can also be read as a stand-alone.

**Warnings:** Use of drugs, some swearing, violence and non-con. NC-17.

* * *

Also: I got **artwork for chapter 2** as a gift for my birthday from the incredible **Adorna**. You can find "Loss" over at my deviantart account. The link is in my profile. ^_^

* * *

**IMPORTANT :**

NOT death-fic, despite how things might look for a while. Everybody gets out alive.

* * *

She thinks nothing of it as she returns one day to find soldiers at the doctor's practice. There's a small garrison nearby where young recruits are trained and every time one of them gets sick or hurt, they bring him or her to the old doctor to take care of it.

She snickers and then sighs as she contemplates patching up one of the recruits yet again. It's probably Su-Zen. This'd be the third time in just as many months that he's injured himself pulling one of his wild stunts while trying very hard to impress Hanashi, two years older than he is and one cohort further along in their training. She wonders if she should give him a hint that Hanashi is actually into the bookish type.

That reminds her that tomorrow, she should make a run up to the garrison. Old man Szhen, who teaches strategy and tactics, is running low on his arthritis medicine and she should look in on Lee, who broke his leg falling from a Komodo-Rhino gone wild a month ago.

Lee was pretty down when he couldn't dispatch to the front with the rest of his squadron, but for her part, she's pretty happy that he won't leave until the next cohort does, which is still about half a year away. She likes the young man, who reminds her a bit of her brother, even if he's more serious and uptight than Hakoda ever was. But Lee always takes responsibility for everybody around him and he has a kind heart.

Hell, the kid once even got in a fight with one of the teachers who was picking on one of the other recruits. Got Lee a month in the bunker as he had known it would. It's no secret that the Fire Nation Army frowns upon insubordination of any kind. But darn if that teacher didn't walk away from the confrontation with a broken nose; and he sure as anything never picked on any of the recruits like that again. She still has to suppress a grin each time she sees the guy and the crooked hook that passes for his nose these days.

To some extent, many of the young soldiers here, girls and boy alike, are like Lee when they first arrive at the garrison: kind of heart, friendly and filled with a sense of responsibility. She's seen a few of them return from the front though, mostly as trainers for the garrison, and the way their once friendly eyes usually have gone hard and cold raises her hackles and makes her growl like a polar bear dog that has scented a pack of armadillo wolves.

Sometimes, she just wishes she could burn all the books that teach these kids so much rubbish about the world and gag the teachers when they start spouting propaganda about how the Fire Nation is superior to all others and how this war, this stupid, horrific war, is justified.

She has had her weak and desperate moments, when she thinks of how some of these young men and women might one day fight her Tribe, her people. Every half year, when another cohort dispatches to the front, her nightmares get worse as she dreams of soot, bloodied snow and the scorched ruins of her home. Sometimes, when she wakes up from one of those nightmares, teeth chattering and tears streaking her face, she considers trying to take as many of the recruits out as she can, maybe with poison, maybe with her waterbending….but then her hands start shaking at the thought of seeing them dead, their blood on her hands and she just can't do it.

They love their home as much as she loves hers. They are young, naïve and they've been lied to all their lives. Not a crime worth being killed for. Besides, none of them would understand why she attacked them. They'd just see it as a barbarous act of betrayal and it would steel their resolve to hunt and kill their enemies in order to protect themselves and their nation.

There's little enough she can do to fight the war, but that doesn't keep her from trying. She tells watertribe stories to the village kids, who come to the kitchen window to beg some cookies from her when she bakes them for the old doctor and if any of them ever end up at the South Pole, he or she won't think only of the glory of the Fire Nation, but also of how Tarrak the Hunter outwitted the Snow Witch or of how Sanee won the secret of ice-fishing from the Turtle-Seals. The Army will have a darn hard time trying to teach these kids that the Water Tribe People are nothing but barbarians that need to be brought into line.

For the trainees, she recommends rest when they get hurt, lots and lots of it, and thanks to that, a few handful of them have been quite late in being dispatched to their posts. Yes, lots of rest is her favourite remedy. It's just a bit of stalling though, a drop in the ocean in the fight to halt the war.

The soldiers that are waiting at the doctor's practice…. she does not know them. They haven't brought anyone sick or injured for treatment either. When the old doctor curtly informs her that a few days ago, someone bought her for quite a steep price, some kind of military commander, and that her new owner has now sent his men to come and collect his property, she feels like the floor has suddenly dropped away beneath her.

The last few years she has quietly and contentedly done the doctor's bidding…but then, he never asked her to do anything that she didn't want to do. She knew that even though people considered her a slave, she was safe here, in this village and that she had nothing to fear from the doctor or anybody really, as long as she didn't attract undue attention to herself. A new owner, and a military man at that, is likely to be a whole different kind of fish: the kind that will capsize her boat and then rip her apart with teeth sharper than her brother's best knife.

The soldiers have to drag her from the house, screaming and kicking, leaving the old, bewildered man behind. It takes four men to chain her and drag her into the prison cart, a windowless metal box on wheels, and when the door clangs shut behind her, the sighs of relief from the soldiers are audible.

She is screams until she is hoarse and hammers at the walls until her hands bleed, then, tired and beaten, she sags into a corner and cries.

What her new owner wants her for….there are two major alternatives and neither of them is good.

He could have bought her for her healing abilities, but that's just a slim chance. She's no officially trained Fire Nation Doctor or Healer, but maybe word got out that she's good. It's a hope worth clinging too, because she can live with being someone's healer, as long as she's not dragged to the battlefront. She won't speed up the healing of wounded soldiers so they can conquer the rest of the world just that much faster…she WON'T. But she might not be given much choice.

The other reason why he might have bought her….just thinking about it makes her nauseous. He might be looking for someone to warm his bed…and if it comes to the worst, the beds of his men too.

What in the names of the spirits shall she do if it comes to that?

Living as someone's slave is harsh enough…

Living as someone's whore? Bitter death seems sweet compared to that.

The thought that she'd go down fighting brings little respite.

The journey takes five days. She receives little food and even less water. They blindfold her when they let her out to relieve herself and she has no idea where they are going. Fortunately, the Fire Lord has seen to it that all the roads in his Empire are in fine condition, so at least she isn't too sore from being bumped around. The first two days she can't sleep, not one wink, sick with worry of what her future will bring. When she finally dozes off some time during the third day, it is anything but restful. She dreams of cold golden eyes and she wakes up panting for breath and bathed in sweat. When they finally arrive at their destination, she is weak from lack of food and crazy from thirst. This time, it only takes one guard to bring her under control and he hardly needs to make an effort at all.

She is dragged through arching hallways and artfully decorated cast iron gates, but she can hardly keep her eyes open to pay attention and she is as unsteady on her feet as if she were falling down drunk.

They dump her in front of a prim, stern looking guy who haughtily informs her that he is the head steward and that it is his duty to see to it that the new slaves are clean and properly clothed before beginning their service. And that, if a new slave is good and obedient, it will get some water and will be fed.

The new slave in question it too worn out and to tired to care about her fate anymore. The only thing she cares about is getting at least one sip of water and only too late she notices the funny taste when they finally hand her something to drink.

She was in no shape to fight when she arrived and whatever is in the food and water that they hand her keeps it that way. As they scrub her down, wash and trim the hair on her head, remove whatever hair she has left in other places, bathe her, and soften her skin with rich lotions she is as compliant and helpless as a newborn kitten.

Only dimly does she notice when a smith comes in and replaces the slave rings on her wrists and ankles with new ones which are plated with gold and fitted with an additional, smaller ring on a hinge on the outside. Even in her stupor, she shivers as she thinks about how easy this will make it for her new owner to tie her up, should he wish to do so.

In the evening, she is locked into a simple and clean cell, containing no more than a pallet and blanket. The woolly feeling in her head and in her limbs turns into a dreamless sleep as soon as she lies down. For the next few days the routine is repeated almost exactly. A drug laced breakfast which will be forced down her throat if she won't eat it on her own, followed by a bath, a massage with scented oils, more food, more trimming and grooming of her body, until what she sees when she catches a glance at herself in a mirror might just as well be a pretty doll, the favourite toy of a young girl with rich parents.

One morning, she awakes and they don't come for her. The jug of water that has been left for her tastes clean and pure. She waits. She paces. She sits on the pallet and picks apart the threads of her blanket. She tries singing to herself and reciting poems. She waits.

In the late afternoon, they fetch her. She contemplates fighting them, but they'd only drug her again and so she doesn't. She'd rather go to her doom with a clear mind and a body that's ready to fight, than with a mind as fuzzy as a ball of tangled wool and limbs as pliable as a dolls'. She offers no resistance as they bathe her, wash her hair and then finally dress her in soft layers of robes, first pink, then purple, then red. They give her a light meal of fruit and rice cakes and she takes it. No sense in going into battle all weak from lack of sustenance, even if the food feels like it's a condemned man's last meal and every bite remains tasteless in her mouth.

After the meal, as the head steward and a set of guards usher her through dimly lit corridors and empty hallways, guarded gates and vast courtyards, her palms are sweaty and her heart hammers as violently as if it were trying to dig a way out of her chest.

The last set of gates they pass lead them right into a set of luxurious living quarters. She does not know much about art or whatever extravagances the rich waste their wealth on, but the colours of lavish tapestries, the intricate shapes of statues, the delicate patterns decorating vases and doors, the books and scrolls littering shelves and desks, the sheer amount of rooms they lead her through….it staggers her mind.

If a whole family of her tribe can live in one single tent, then how can one man require so much space and so many things?

She unconsciously chews her lips as she thinks of the amount of guards such a man can afford and command. Her feet tell her to run, to make a mad dash for the nearest exit, to find some water, even if it is just a puddle and to use it to clear her path…but in her heart, she knows that whatever she does, she'll be dead or re-captured before she has as much as reached the outer walls of this building.

Her musings are cut short as the head steward pinches her elbow and snidely tells her to stop mangling her mouth since it was hard enough to make her look presentable as it is.

They stop before a large door, inlaid with a pattern of golden flames. The head steward opens the door and goes through with her, leaving the guards that escorted them behind. The room is brightly lit by a sea of candles, and it blinds her for a moment. Before her eyes can adjust, the head steward beside her has bowed deeply, turned and left the room again, shutting the door with an audible click. She couldn't stand the guy, but now, suddenly, she fervently wishes he was still here by her side.

As she starts taking in her surroundings, she has to ball her hands into fist to keep them from visibly shaking. The gigantic bed in the middle of the room, its drapes flaming in scarlet and copper, is bad enough.

But the thing that makes her mouth goes dry with fear is the man standing at the wide open door that opens up to a small garden.

His back is turned towards her, but she can tell that he is tall, more than a head taller than her and she is no small woman, even though she is slender. His shoulders are broad and the dark red robe he wears does not hide the fact that he has the physique of a well trained warrior. Some of his sable hair is tied up in a topknot, like almost all Fire Nation men wear, but the rest of it hangs open, reaching down to the middle of his back.

Some small and frantic part of her had hoped that her new owner would be old and decrepit. Or maybe he would be very young. Or crippled. Somebody…anybody she could fight or bargain with. But the man she sees before her? She has a snowball's chance in hell of defending her honour against him.

As if held by an evil spell, she can't move, she can't think. All she can do is listen to the rushing of blood in her ears as her body goes cold as ice.

Then the man turns and she falls into the very golden eyes that have haunted her sweetest dreams as well as her nightmares for more than ten years.

"Hello there, little thief." he purrs. "I've been waiting for you."

She swallows. His voice has deepened. He has grown a chin-beard that adds to the compelling lines of his face and his shoulders are broader than they were when they first met.

Before her stands a man, fully grown, strong, powerful, confident and not the young man barely out of his teens she met over a decade ago. But it is him.

And yes, he can still make butterflies flutter in her stomach, despite the fact that he is Fire Nation and despite the fact that he was the one who captured her and sent her to prison.

And yes, at the sight of him, her loathing for what he is still blazes forth like heat from a furnace, now more than ever.

The heated rush of hatred unfreezes the spell and fills her like an ocean trying to fit itself inside a teacup. All doubt and all fear are swept away and her eyes narrow and she slips into a fighting stance Hakoda drilled into her when she was twelve.

If the guy wants to pick things up where they left off the last time, fine, so be it.

What she knows of fighting won't buy her victory, but she WILL hurt him before she goes down.

He just chuckles at her antics and leisurely walks towards her, stopping just outside her reach.

Like a buyer at a cattle market, he looks her up and down, as if considering if she was worth the asking price. There's a smirk on his face and she feels her cheeks grow hot.

The low growl coming from her throat doesn't seem quite human and she sneers at him.

"You waited for me? Too bad. I was hoping I'd never see your ugly mug again. You were an arrogant asshole prick when we first met and now you look like someone died and made you King of all the Asshole Pricks in the World."

She hadn't expected him to laugh at that, a slow, rolling laugh like thunder in the distance. A smirk curls his lips like fire will curl burning leaves, all heat and ashes.

"And I thought you might have learned your place by now. But don't worry, I'll show you."

Then he starts to circle her, slowly, like a lionshark, knowing his prey can't get away, but drawing out the hunt and the kill just for the fun of it. She turns with him, eyes fixed on his every move, trying to be ready for when he finally attacks. But keeping the fighting stance while turning requires fancy footwork and she never got a full training as a warrior.

There's no tell-tale movement of the eyes or the shoulders when he comes for her. He is good, terribly good and it's only the patient teachings of her brother that save her.

"If they're tall, go for the feet" Hakoda used to tell her, so in the last instant, she manages to drop into a crouch, narrowly avoiding his blow to her midriff. With a turning kick she aims for his shin. She gets lucky, or maybe it's just his arrogance that made him underestimate her, but her kick manages to connect, right above the outer side of his ankle, and there's an audible little crack. He spits out a curse and to her great satisfaction, the arrogant smirk on his face is replaced with an angry snarl. She has gotten under his skin; good.

She rolls out of his way and comes up again, but he is fast, too fast for her, and she hadn't expected him to use his hurt leg for a kick of his own. He sweeps her from her feet and she has to roll again to get away before she comes up once more.

They face each other, circling around each other like a pair of angry cats. He is smiling again and she can feel cold sweat trickling down her back. Her nerve breaks and she attacks first, but he is waiting for her, grabbing her arm and shoulder and throws her over his hip. She hits the floor, hard, and before she can move out of the way, he is on top of her, just like when they first met, but she has been waiting for this and she bites his shoulder. With a yell, he rears back and she follows up with a punch to his throat, but he's barely within reach, so she doesn't do more than graze his skin.

He backhands her and she sees stars. Before her head clears, he has stood up and lifted her up in his arms, cradling her for a heartbeat like a lover would. Her ears are still ringing as he tosses her onto the bed and follows quickly, covering her body with his once more.

She struggles as he takes her arms, one by one, but he is stronger by far and overpowers her with ease. He has no problems fastening her slave rings to the chains set into the upper side of the bed.

They are both panting with exertion as he lies on top of her.

He likes the way her cheeks are flushed with rage.

Her eyes, burning with unrestrained fury, are as blue like the summer sky, just like he remembers them. She clenches her teeth and sneers as she sees the amused sparkle in his.

His breath calms a lot faster than hers does. He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he raises himself on one arm and reaches for her robes with the other. His fingers slip past the layers: red, purple, pink, and then he's touching her skin. She bucks underneath him, violently, and yells at him to let her go, calls him a bastard and tells him that if he does this, she will hate him forever, but he just waits, his fingers splayed over her chest just below the collarbone, until she has spent all her energy and all her anger. As he begins to slowly explore her body with his hand, she closes her eyes and tears start slipping over her cheeks.

He gently pinches one nipple until it hardens, then opens the sash fastening her robes so he can pull them further apart ever so slowly. He bends down and his mouth, hot and wet, fastens on the hardened nipple and he gently starts suckling, his tongue teasing her with quick little licks and long, sensuous strokes. She shudders and fights to hold the moan back that threatens to spill from her lips. It seems like the warmth of his mouth is spreading in waves from her breast to the rest of her body and an incredible heat gathers low in her belly; a thunderstorm waiting to break.

The only thing still covering her are the sleeves of her robes and she doesn't even get to keep those. First on one side, then on the other, his hands slip inside the sleeves, pulling them taut. As his fingers slide along the fabric on the inside, the sleeves part and fall away, the tang of burnt silk sharp in the air. Once he's done, he starts caressing one of her naked arms with his hand and she gasps as he strokes the skin just above the crook of her arm.

His mouth switches to her other nipple, but the pad of his thumb continues to tease the first one and she can't hold her moans back any longer. The hardness of his cock is pressing into her leg and she knows what is to come and what she will be unable to prevent. Regret, sadness and humiliation mingle with the arousal he has pulled from her unwilling body, but they are not able to douse the flames he has ignited within her.

He pushes himself up further to look at her and slips a bit to one side, his mouth leaving her nipple, and his hand moves deeper. Her eyes fly open, fixing onto his and once more she arches and twists her body, trying to throw him off, but between the chains holding down her arms and his leg, which he has casually flung over hers, he keeps her pinned down. His hand rests on her belly, heavy and warm, until she calms down again. Then his hand continues its journey downwards.

When his fingers dip between the folds of her womanhood, only to find them slick and wet, his smile is that of a cat that got the cream. "Whore" he calls her and she burns with shame.

For the first time in her life, she prays for death, just so this encounter would find an end, but one doesn't die from having all dignity, all choice stripped away.

Instead, she only grows wetter as his fingers rub and press on the little nub just above her entrance. He laughs and she looks away.

He takes his time, a touch here, a kiss there, exploring every inch of her body that he can reach without letting her go. It doesn't take long and she comes undone, trembling and crying, a whispered "…no no no no no no…." her mantra, only interrupted when he teases an especially sensitive spot and she can't hold back a moan, denial and ecstasy fighting for dominance in her voice.

When he stops touching her and sits back, kneeling over her thighs, she is relieved at first. Her breath is coming in fast little pants and her whole body is covered in sweat. A small smile, full of satisfaction, plays around his lips as he gives her time enough to recover. It is not enough time so that she can focus again, but not enough to let the strange mix of tension and languid abandon that has settled inside of her dissipate.

Once he is sure that she is aware enough to understand what he is about to do to her, he reaches for the belt of his robe and slowly, very slowly, unties it. After discarding the belt, he unhurriedly slips his robes from his shoulders. Some distant part in her notes that his shoulders are indeed as broad as she thought them to be; and that his body is as well muscled as it had seemed while it was still hidden beneath his clothes.

She starts shaking her head, as if her denial might change anything. Even knowing it is futile, she starts to beg.

"No, please, don't do this….please, don't….please…."

He leans down and silences her with a slow, unexpectedly tender kiss. His fingers however nestle at the strings of his pants with a newfound urgency. A short shift of his body and one shove at the last garment covering him and he is as naked as she is.

One last time she tries to jerk away, but he just uses her movement to wedge a knee between her thighs. He's lying on top of her now, fully naked, and his kiss grows hungrier, wilder. He slips his other knee between her legs too. His teeth nip at her lips, but she clenches her mouth shut, trying to deny him access to her body. More amused than upset by her attempt to defend her herself, he chuckles and rubs his cock against her cleft.

In vain, she tries to clamp down on the thrill of pleasure that runs through her body like miniature lightning as he repeats the movement.

Then, he hooks his arms beneath her knees and spreads her wide open for him.

"I will teach you to say yes to me" he half-laughs and half-snarls and with a sharp thrust he buries himself inside her to the hilt. She cries out as her maidenhead tears beneath his brutal assault, her voice high and sharp like breaking porcelain. He stops moving, surprised by the fact that he just split a barrier he hadn't expected to be there anymore.

She feels frozen, inside and out. Touching her in intimate places should have been reserved for someone with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, someone she trusted, someone she loved. But this hateful stranger has viciously taken what should have been rightfully given to one close to her heart. Numbly, she thinks that now, all the water in the oceans won't be sufficient to clean her of the taint of his touch.

He does not care about any of this. On the contrary, the smile that settles on his face once he has processed the situation is inordinately pleased. He kisses her again and whispers in her ear "I see you've been a good girl all these years. Don't worry, you'll get something nice tomorrow to reward you for your good behaviour."

Beneath him, she has started trembling and shivering as if she were freezing to death. Again, he waits for her to calm down, holding himself still above her to give her time to adjust to his length and his girth and to what he is doing with her.

He wants her to pay attention to him and him only when he fucks her, and not to whatever thoughts might be bothering her. She is his slave and he will teach her that every inch of her and every thought she has are his now.

Once she has quieted down, he starts moving inside of her, slowly at first but going faster ever so patiently. His mouth is back on her nipple, sucking, licking, while his hands stroke and tease all the sensitive spots he mapped out earlier. He's playing her like an instrument and she can't stop herself from coming alive under his touch, just like before, moaning as his thrusts hit something….something inside her and it's as unstoppable and undeniable as waves cresting and crashing onto a cliff. He fills her in places she didn't know were empty and aching for someone to fill them and without thinking about it, she arches her hips to meet his.

It's a gradual change, but his control is slipping too. His breath comes faster and the hands caressing her moments before are now grasping her hard, almost bruising her flesh. She hardly notices, fighting not be washed away by the tide he has called up inside her. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling deeply and marvelling at her scent, a mix of salt and foreign spices and smoke and snow; he feels like a blind man amazed by the sudden sight of the rising sun.

She loses her fight, not sure she wants to win anymore, and white hot pleasure fills every part of her, overpowering her, body, mind and soul, drowning out conscious thought.

The last thing she sees is the sight of him arching back, eyes scrunched closed, lips slightly parting in ecstasy.

The last thing she feels is his seed spilling into her.

The last thing she hears is his voice, half-growl, half-moan, saying "MINE."

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**For Leah:**

Thank you very, very much for your review. I was tickled pink to get another one. I edit and rewrite a lot which is both fun AND tedious at times and there was a passage in the middle of this chapter that I was poking and prodding at, but where I was not making any progress. Then you came along and reviewed, and it motivated me enough to finally whip that part into shape. ^_^

It makes me very happy that you liked the story so far and that you're curious as to where it will go. Just so much: there'll be one more chapter focused on Kian's point of view and then we'll get to find out what the hell happened to Ozai.

**Author's note:**

_Non-Con fantasies_. I've wondered for quite some time what makes them so interesting to read / write. The answer I've come up with is this: We live in a society where we are often taught that sex is "bad" and that people, especially girls / women shouldn't actively want it. If a girl actually wants sex, then she's a "bad girl". The only way to have sex AND stay a "good girl" is to have sex that you're not responsible for because you DON'T want it: non-con. Non-con fantasies let you eat the cake and keep it too.

Does this mean that girls / women want non-con for realz? Uhm, no. Non-con is fun as long as it remains a fantasy, pretty much like watching Jurassic Park or one of the Aliens movies is fun. It's great to watch, but you sure as hell wouldn't want to actually experience that kind of situation.

Also, just so we're clear on this: What Ozai does to Kian in this chapter isn't dub-con or a case of "the lady doth protest too much". It's rape. Full, flat-out _rape_.

Someone might say "But she's attracted to him!" and yes, she is…but she also says "No" and means it and it's that "No" which is important. Kian's a fully grown woman and she knows what she wants from a bed-partner and that sure as hell is more than just hotness.

So…what about a rape victim feeling pleasure while being raped? Well, often, human bodies just react to physical stimuli, regardless of how we feel or think about it, and it's not uncommon for rape victims to be physically stimulated by what is being done to them. If you don't believe me: ever tried to voluntarily stop shivering when you're really, really cold?

Feeling physical pleasure doesn't make the experience of being raped less degrading or less awful…quite the contrary actually, because a lot of victims are ashamed of the way their bodies reacted and they wonder if they might be in part responsible. They're not. "No" means exactly that: NO.

On the subject of _virginity_:

When I grew up in the 80's there were a lot of romance novels out there where the heroine is deflowered by the hero with much breaching of barriers and bleeding on the sheets.

Most of the time, in real life, that's complete humbug.

The hymen or corona usually degrades into almost nothing as a woman / girl grows older. It stretches with physical activity too. Plus, it doesn't fully cover a woman's entrance anyway, otherwise we'd be in real trouble once our monthlies set in.

So mostly, when someone who is past puberty does the horizontal mambo for the first time, there's usually not much left that can act as a barrier in any form. However, I've taken the liberty of making Kian one of the rather small percentage of women that have a rather thick corona, so yeah, we get the whole "breaching of barriers and bleeding on the sheets" thing.

It made sense for Kian to be still a virgin since she's been on the run and/or living in enemy territory for all her adult life and there just never was anybody she would have felt comfortable about getting in the sheets with. Plus, there was that pesky memory of a pair of golden eyes looking at her.

As for Ozai, he has all kinds of things he's telling himself to justify what he's doing…but I didn't want "hey, she's damaged goods anyway" to be one of them. I'm an 8o's girl, so sue me. ^_~


	6. Burnt to Ashes  Part III

**Disclaimer: **

Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:**

Grief will tear her apart if she can't come to terms with the past.

The Phoenix might be reborn from the Ashes…but before that, he will burn.

**Author's note:**

Pairing Ozai/OC.

Het.

Set about 3 months after the end of the original series but contains flashbacks that go back as far back as 7 years before the beginning of the series.

Sequel to the previous chapters, but following "Burnt to Ashes – part I and II", it can also be read as a stand-alone.

**Warnings:**

Use of drugs, some violence and non-con. NC-17.

Also: Extensive use of flashbacks and some creative use of grammatical tenses, using the past tense for current events (mostly) and the present tense for things in the past. Just now, for Kian, things that happened in the past are a lot more vivid then what is happening in the present…

Also: I got artwork for chapter 2 as a gift for my birthday from the incredible Adorna. You can find "Loss" over at my deviantart account. The link is in my profile. ^_^

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IMPORTANT :**

Remember how I said that this was NOT death-fic?

...Uhm….

…..This might not be true for Original Characters appearing from this chapter onward…..

**

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SPECIAL THANKS**

Special thanks go to my beloved **Sunshader**, who normally hates this type of story, but who has read and critiqued every chapter so far, giving me important input and insights that I needed in order to make this story better.

Another special thanks goes to **ArrayePL**, who gave the rough version of this chapter a quick once-over to make sure that, after all this time, I was still on track with everything. Thank you!

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She stared angrily at the corpse laid out on the stone slab in the centre of the room and pulled the blankets tighter around her. A shiver ran over her body, and she cursed silently, well aware that the chill she felt had nothing to do with the actual temperature of the room.

There were so many things she still wanted to say to him. She wanted to yell at him that "Mine" had been nothing but a pretty lie which he told both of them, not worth the breath he used to utter it.

She wanted to kick him in the shins and tell him that her brother and the people of her tribe have a far better grasp on what calling something "yours" meant.

How often had she watched her brother forgo sleep and food, driving himself to the point of utter exhaustion and beyond, only so he could make sure his people were fed and warm and safe?

She had been away from home for most of her life, but she still remembered the lean season, when the grown-ups would make do with nearly no food, so that at least the children would not go hungry.

Like all boys, her brother would usually whine and pout if he missed as much as a single meal and he wasn't above begging their mother for a scrap of seal blubber jerky here and there between meals either.

However, the first year he and Bato were counted as adults, they made a contest out of it to see whose ribs showed more prominently after they had gone with little more than seaweed soup and water for weeks on end. The next year, they had joked about whose tummy had grown more hollow and the year after that it had been loose teeth. Whether it was on a hunt or a scouting mission when Fire Nation Navy had been sighted, there was no end to the lengths her brother would go to in order to see his family and Tribe cared for and protected. And why? Because the Watertribe was Hakoda's.

And the things the Ozai had called his own? She snorted contemptuously, her hands balled into fists.

All the people the Firelord had called his had known little but suffering and misery by his hand.

His son – burned and banished.

His wife – exiled.

His father – murdered.

His brother – betrayed.

His nation – its' rivers and soil poisoned, many of its' sons and daughters dead or maimed in that senseless war.

The lands he had wanted to claim for himself? Thanks to the Fire Nation, they were full of ghosts, starving refugees and burnt out villages.

"Mine"? No, he didn't have the right to call anything or anyone that.

Fire Lord Ozai had owned nothing but shadows and ashes.

She wondered if, in his dark cell, he had realized that?

She thinks of the rumours she has heard at court, stories of snide remarks and haughty sneers, coming from the tarnished icon of a disappearing area and then tries to imagine something like understanding and regret starting to fill those golden eyes and words like "I'm sorry" coming from those lips.

Not able to help herself, she starts laughing at the very thought, the rasping, choking sound echoing hollowly from the stone walls. No, it's not likely that he realized.

Once her laughter has died down, she can't help but muse on how his belief in his Nation's superiority and its' right to subjugate the world was as unshakeable as the mountains, as solid as granite.

There was nothing that could change his mind. Nothing.

Not the reports of rebellions small and large flaring up again and again, in new established colonies as well as in the ones his grandfather had established.

Not the embittered resistance his armies encountered from the Watertribes and the Earth Kingdom, even a hundred years after Sozin had started the war.

Not the rising number of dissidents and critical voices within his own Nation that he had to silence violently before they reached the ears of the masses.

Not the fact that of all his family, only Azula, fervently, fanatically devoted Azula, remained by his side.

The persistence with which Ozai had held on to his convictions would have put a rock to shame.

He should have been born an earthbender.

From seemingly nowhere, an image pops up in her mind: Ozai clothed in robes of dark emerald green, with the hems trimmed in light brown.

The silence is broken again, this time not by harsh laughter, but by a set of mad giggles.

The colours would have suited him.

It takes a something like an eternity for her to calm down again, and even after she has stopped giggling, she was left with a hiccup, eyes that burned and stung and the memory of the day she found proof that once, he must have had eyes that could see the world unclouded by visions of conquest and glory:

.

.

A rainy afternoon, a few weeks after he considered her housebroken enough to grant her free movement of their living quarters. After making sure there are no servants around to spy on her, she gathers up enough courage to peruse the contents of his work desk, well knowing that if he finds out, she will be in for some severe punishment.

At first there is nothing she hasn't expected: plans for enlarging the factories where his battle tanks are manufactured, files of high-ranking officers due for promotion, blue-prints for a prison that is suited for the containment of earthbenders, calculations of tax-levies for newly conquered territories.

While she still tries to figure out if there is some way she can make use of the information she has found, she keeps searching his desk.

There's a drawer at the bottom that's stuck. Curious to find something so ill-maintained in the home of a man so hell-bent on making sure that everything works the way he wants it to, she draws all moisture from the wood to make it shrink a bit and once she has done so, it opens just fine.

Inside, slightly dusty, she finds a series of sketches and paintings.

It's a wild mix of portraits, landscapes and building plans, one more lovely than the next.

She recognizes a younger version of General Iroh, lounging on a bench in the gardens, his arm slung around a cute young woman who is slightly taller than him. They're smiling fondly at each other.

There's a portrait of a woman, slumping slightly in the cushions that prop her up in bed. Her hair is dishevelled and there are dark rings under her eyes…but her smile is as radiant and shining as the sun as she cradles her newborn baby.

There are also detailed plans for a town-hall, gardens, a market-place, a university….there's even a plan for a house of healing and as she studies it, she excitedly chews her lip as she thinks about how much fun it would be to practice in a place that had an attached herb-garden, a pharmacy and such extensive treatment facilities, including hot and cold water pools. In one drawing, she recognizes a range of glaciers that are about two weeks travel from her village. Her heart goes tight with longing as she marvels at the regal perfection of the icy cliffs, perfectly captured with just a few strokes of the brush.

Smiling and giddy with excitement, she studies the artist's mark at the bottom of one of the pictures and nearly drops it when she and finds that it is signed with the name of the man who has enslaved her. All of the pictures are. Hands trembling, she goes through the drawings once more, looking for clues on how a man so callous and cold could paint pictures that hold so much warmth and beauty.

It is not quite unexpected when she finds that, going by the dates, the pictures are quite old. The newest of them, the sketch of the young mother, was done about ten years ago. The picture of the glacier was done a mere two weeks before her unlucky first encounter with her captor, over at the garrison where she had tried to steal information on the other waterbenders.

The ink on the oldest pictures is starting to fade in places.

Hands still shaking and throat tight, she carefully replaces the drawings in the drawer and shuts them away once more.

That night, as he orders her to lie down beside him, she reaches out and gingerly, almost tenderly, traces the outlines of his face, trying to find something there of the man he must have been once upon a time. It's the first time she touches Ozai without him having to order her to do so and the surprise on his face makes him seem as young as on the day they first met.

.

A few days after she finds the drawings, she makes another unexpected discovery. He has just returned from a particularly long meeting, in a foul mood and flexing his shoulders in a way that tell her that his neck muscles have tensed up to a point where they are so tight, they could double as mooring rope for one of his warships.

The games he plays with her when he's in a mood like that tend to be on the rougher side of comfort and it's something she'd love to avoid. So, shyly and head downcast, like a good little slave, she offers him a backrub.

Grouchy and snarling, he agrees, flinging shirt and robes into a corner and flopping down on the sun-warmed tiles of the garden's patio, one of his favourite spots.

She sets to work on his back and soon, with the help of a bit of secretively used waterbending, the cramped, rock-hard muscles become soft as warmed butter beneath her fingers. As he relaxes, a low, rumbling sound of utter comfort starts deep in his chest and runs all the way up her hands and arms, so utterly in contrast with his usual arrogant and aggressive demeanour that she can't help but snicker. He retaliates for the perceived mockery by tickling her until she runs out of breath and then some. Their laughter mingles in the late afternoon breeze, joining in its mellow rhythm.

Considering how desperately she wants to get away from him, it's nearly funny how, from then on, she keeps finding things that make her want to stay by his side.

.

.

His rare, unguarded laughter…sitting in the cold stone hall, huddled in her blankets, it was something she still craved, like a drug the withdrawal of which left her shaking and nauseous. But when had she heard it for the last time? And where?

She couldn't remember. Frustrated at her lack of ability to recall something so important, so vital to her life, she started picking at the threads of the blanket around her. How about the last time he touched her with gentleness and care?

...No, she can't pinpoint that either.

The blanket had little with which it could resist her nimble fingers and the first thread came out. Its' silky texture felt alien in her hand.

...When did he actually talk with her for the last time? And about what? She finds no answer.

Despite the blankets, there was a chill seeping into her very bones.

She continued to pick at her memories as well as at the blanket.

In the fabric, a small hole grew, as if a moth had nibbled on it.

She wiggled her toes, trying to warm them up a bit.

...When did he smile at her for the last time?

It was some time after he broke her, she was sure. She remembered him softly whispering something to her, a warm hand on her cheek and a look in his eyes that held a silent request, almost a plea…but the details are hazy, beyond her grasp. She doesn't know what he said anymore, or why he was talking to her.

She was still plucking away at the blanket and the hole she had made was now large enough for an arrowhead to pass. How could it be that such thick and warm blankets were but a flimsy shield against the cold that was now making her teeth chatter?

...When had the man she loved disappeared for good?

Her breath formed milky clouds in the air as she continued to search her memories.

She was aware that just like the blanket, she was coming apart. The past was eating away at her, tearing her to pieces. Finding an answer to her questions might be the one thing that could save her sanity.

Hmmmm...Around the borders of a Watertribe village, the tribes' people would set up large carved ice-blocks. If someone got caught by a blizzard outside the village border, they still had a chance of finding their way home if they found one of those. The carvings would point them in the right direction; would tell them in which direction home could be found.

Right now, she needed a memory that would serve her in the same way. She needed to find her way back to the man she loved…and back to the place where she had lost him forever.

It took a while, but finally, she stumbled onto something that led her way.

.

.

Their first shared meal. It had been in the early afternoon, on the day after their first night together.

The sun had painted the room in cozy golden tones, but she had felt as cold then as she did now:

They lay in bed, side by side, silent, each of them caught in their own thoughts in the aftermath of their last bout between the sheets. She turns away from him, not looking at him as best as her chains will allow her.

He is stretched out leisurely beside her, toying with a lock of her hair.

The quiet of the afternoon is broken when her stomach growls like an attacking tiger-seal. He chuckles and rises from the bed, leaving the room only to return moments later with a tray laden with grilled meats, rice and succulent vegetables.

Despite her desperate situation, the prospect of eating something makes her mouth water.

…..And then he kills all her desire for food by informing her that from now on, even though she is still allowed to drink whatever the servant bring her, she is only allowed to eat what he feeds her with his own hands.

As he offers her the first bit of succulent meat, she spits on the floor and then presses her lips tightly together, glaring at him.

Of course, he doesn't let that pass. His grip on her cheeks, with which he forces her to open her mouth, is unrelenting, and he pushes some roast chicken past her lips. Then he covers her mouth with his fingers and promises her a second spanking if she doesn't chew and swallow. Her backside is still smarting from the first one, a few hours ago, and so she obeys.

.

The seasons pass and some time in their second year, a few months after she has found his old sketches, there comes an evening where he weaves a tasty morsel teasingly back and forth in front of her nose and she finds herself trying to snatch it with her teeth. When she succeeds in capturing her prize AND splattering him with sauce in the process, she has to laugh so hard that she doesn't really mind when he pins her down and marks her body with a series of light nips and bites to remind her of her table manners.

.

Just a few weeks afterwards, he feeds her slices of ripe mango with his hands. She begins licking the juice from his fingers, unwilling to let a single drop of the delicious nectar escape. He gasps, the sound abrupt and feral. Still licking, she looks up into his eyes, startled by the sound. She watches his eyes fill with heat as he watches her.

Wordlessly, he splays his fingers and holds them out to her, so she can reach in between them with her tongue. Her eyes fixed on his, it flicks out, as if it had a mind of its own, laving a slow, moist path down the crease between his knuckles. His eyelids flutter shut and the low, rolling moan that is torn from his lips sounds different from the usual sounds he makes when he takes her to bed. It sounds….unguarded. Unintentional. Vulnerable.

.

In their fourth year, on a warm summer afternoon, she is comfortably curled up on a couch in the living room by the rock garden, weaving brightly coloured silk threads into a bracelet and enjoying the sun that's coming in from the open terrace doors, when she hears footsteps approaching from behind.

One set firm and swift, the other more light footed and quite hurried. Grinning, she sets her unfinished work down, the blue and purple coils making pretty patterns on the dark red of the couch's upholstery, and slides to her feet. Before she can turn though, strong arms slip around her and she finds herself pulled towards the backrest of the couch again and lifted over it.

He cradles her in his arms and before she can do as much as protest, he bends down and kisses her just behind the ear, his beard tickling her throat. She giggles and tries to push him away, but he just holds fast and nips at her earlobe and she relents, melting into his touch.

"Mmmhhh….you smell good. Edible." His teeth graze her throat.

"Nah. I'm full of tiny, pointy bones. You'd just choke." She stretches upward and places a kiss of her own on his chin.

He sets her down and lightly smacks her bottom, grinning.

"Good thing I brought something else to eat then."

The delicious aromas of roast duck and spicy ginger waft through the air, escaping from the platter with food, carried by the palace servant who accompanied the Firelord. Her mouth waters and she grins up at her lover. She loves roast duck with ginger and he knows it.

"Feed me?"

He chuckles and kisses the top of her head. "Always, my sweet."

.

.

Down in the catacombs she slipped from her bench, shivering and shaking so hard she was no longer able to hold herself upright. Curled in on herself, her cheek pressed against the cold tiles and breath ghosting over the floor, leaving it covered with a thin sheen of ice, she knew she was close.

"Always" he had told her on that sunny afternoon…..and even months later, after she had rebelled, after he had broken her….he had been true to his word.

He still fed her.

But why had she been so used to the servants feeding her by the time he and his fleet left the capital?

Somewhere, "Always" had ended; somewhere, he had broken his promises for good.

...It is hard enough to remember what she had for lunch this day last week. Trying to remember the meals she shared with Ozai in the years after her rebellion is like trying to dig a new well with a shovel made of wet clay. And yet, she doggedly retraces her steps, taking clues from whatever other little details she remembers.

.

.

It has been a year, maybe two since he banished his son.

A year or two since he beat her bloody and burned her to punish her for her rebellion.

A year or two since her mind and heart found solace in a stuporous haze that leaves her little more than a clockwork doll; pretty to look at, with all the right responses at just the right moment, but empty and lifeless.

Just like their bouts in bed, mealtimes have become short and practical affairs. He brings reports to the table and will read them while eating, hardly looking at her as he stuffs food in her mouth. There are no more shared conversations as they eat, no teasing, no more laughter. Just the noise of spoons and chopsticks clinking on porcelain and pages rustling as he goes through his papers.

He is busy. Very busy. He returns to their quarters late at night and leaves early in the morning.

It gets worse each day and for a month or so, he suddenly is so taken up by the demands the running of the war and of his country make on him, that he almost seems to forget about her entirely.

He is even too busy to take her to bed.

Most of the time, during those days, he certainly is too busy to remember about feeding her.

For the first week or so, hunger is a dull, gnawing ache at the pit of her stomach. Caught in the muddled dream her life has become, she hardly cares. Whether she goes hungry or not, whether she lives or she dies…it is as important as a twig snapping in a forest that has been uprooted by a ferocious storm.

After a week or so, the hunger pangs recede, leaving her feeling light-headed and dizzy, which is only a marginal deterioration compared to her usual state of mind. The only thing really keeping her alive is the water and the honeyed tea the servants bring her.

After a bit more than a month things quieten down again.

It is late at night and he has returned to their bedroom. He does not look at her while he undresses in the dim candlelight, but as he prepares to go to bed, with a jerk of his chin, he motions her to come to him.

As she lies down on the soft covers, he is already untying the laces of her robe, fingers rough and impatient. His hands glide over her flesh, his movements fast and mechanical. He strokes her hips, her shoulders, her breasts….bends down to kiss her…and then, suddenly, stops.

The candles flare to life and she blinks as the bright light blinds her.

His features are twisted in a rictus of disgust as he stares down at her, taking in her far too sharp cheekbones, the prominent ridges of her ribs, the knobbly protrusions of her hip-bones and the stick-like quality of her arms and legs.

Spitting out a curse, he gets off the bed and heads for the door, dragging her behind him by a too thin wrist. Janking the door open, he shoves her through. She is too weak to stand and drops into an untidy heap on the floor. As always, there is a gaggle of servants waiting beyond, ready to carry out his every whim.

"Feed her." he snarls. "The bitch is of no use to me like that, with her bones sticking out all over the place." The he slams the door shut.

It takes more than half a month of careful feeding and grooming until she has regained her former shape and is returned to his bedchamber. By then, it has become solely the servants' duty to feed her.

She never shares a meal with him again.

.

.

As she lay on the stone floor, not that far away from his cold dead body, every breath hurt as if a stone fist had smashed her ribs. And yet, she kept on breathing.

One breath. Another.

She would live.

She had found her answer.

She should have known the moment General Iroh had asked her whether there had been any good left in his brother in the end and she had replied "No" without thinking about it even for a heartbeat.

The man she had loved had died. Not four days ago, but long, long before that.

Even though he still breathed, still had a heartbeat, he had been dead.

He disappeared from her life…not on the night he broke her, but on the night where he forgot for good that she was a living, breathing human being.

The night he stopped feeding her.

That had been the moment where "Always" split and shattered, the moment where all her dreams and hopes turned out to be nothing but smoke and mirrors.

That was the night Ozai died.

Her lover, her friend…the other half of her soul….The irony that she has only now begun to grieve for him, years after she lost him, is choking her, turning each breath into a wave of fire that ravages her lungs. Yet, she keeps on breathing.

She coughs and spits, finally ridding herself of the dreams of a bright future which she harboured in the last few weeks. They were but empty echoes of dreams that faded into nothingness a long time ago. Deceiving mirages of cool water in a deadly dry desert.

The now all-to-clear knowledge brings her cold comfort.

Finally, breathing becomes easier. He left her behind. And now she has no other choice left but to say her final good-byes….or follow him into the darkness.

Right now, more than anything, she doesn't want him to have been the most important thing in her life.

He doesn't deserve that.

Nobody who so recklessly wasted the life he was given deserves that.

He had a choice.

He could have chosen to remain the man he was.

The man who painted.

The man who laughed and loved and who cared about those that were his.

Instead, he decided to become the embodiment of someone else's dream and to turn the world into a living nightmare.

He does not deserve her grief and so she will take back what is hers.

Teeth clenched and hands curled into fists so tightly the nails bite into her flesh, she gets back on her feet. Her knees are shaking.

Despite her resolve to see this finally through, she hesitates to take that first step.

The thought of sitting down again and maybe not finding the strength to get up again, ever, makes her teeth chatter until they rattle.

It ends up terrifying her enough to get moving.

One step towards the body. Her breath comes in panicked little gasps.

Two steps. Stormy seas, she is still dragging her feet, but at least she is moving.

Three. She pauses, breathing in and out. In and out. Slowing down. She can do this.

Four steps.

Five.

Six. Pause again. Wipe cheeks dry, re-learn how to breathe.

Seven.

Eight. Her fingers find the edge of the grey stone slab, its' surface rough beneath her fingers. Her eyes are looking elsewhere, trying to find something to fix onto as her world tips, spins and falls.

She grasps the edge with both hands now, looking down at them, marvelling at how her knuckles are white as snow and how they compliment the white robes they have wrapped his body in. His hand is right beside hers. It's colour is a mottled mix of whites and greys on top and purplish-red patches at the bottom….not unusual for someone several days dead.

She fixes her eyes on the hand, too scared to look up at his face. She contemplates the smooth curve of his nails, the ridges of his knuckles, the tips of his fingers.

There is a scar missing, right by the thumb.

There…...is…...a scar…...missing…...

She blinks, not trusting her eyes.

The scar DOESN'T miraculously reappear.

It's only a tiny one. It should be next to the knuckle. She bit him there, the first time he tried to feed her grapes. The tang of his blood was sweet and coppery in her mouth. The scar is gone. Faintly she wonders if it's possible that some people lose their scars when they die?

She looks up to his face, slightly shaking her head, the continuous back and forth movement an echo of the receding dizziness. She reaches out to the corpse and strokes back the hair, fingers careful, searching. A frown creeps in and settles between her brows.

Death can marginally change a person's features and no one would comment on the strange laxity of a deceased person's face. After all, the straight nose, the angle of the chin, the shape of his eyes, the mouth…they are all as they should be. The man lying on the stone slab looks very much like Ozai.

But…there is another tiny scar missing at the edge of one of the eyebrows, where she had tried to scratch his eyes out in the second year. Nobody knew about that, since he had made her heal it directly after….and then whipped her until she was black and blue.

A small birthmark above the left ear, well hidden by Ozai's hair, is gone too. The slight bump in his jaw on the right side that could be felt, but not seen, the remains of a not perfectly healed fracture he had received in a fight with a Water Tribe warrior when he was 18, wasn't there either.

Along the lines of his cheekbones there is the stubble of a few shaved hairs where no hair should have been growing in the first place.

Death, especially days old death, can change a man's features somewhat. But no, it does not erase scars, nor does it change the pattern of the way a person's hair grows or smooth the little bumps of ill healed fractures.

It's not him.

It's NOT HIM.

Hands shaking, knees weak like butter, breath coming in rapid little gasps, she stumbles back to the bench, falling twice and gathering herself back up again. Once she reaches the bench, she sits down, hard. Her knees smart from where she fell and her heart beats as fast as the wings of a hummingbird, but she hardly notices.

Sitting down, she can't take her eyes away from the body of the man who had replaced her lover, her nightmare.

It wasn't him. It wasn't Ozai.

Ozai was out there, somewhere.

Someone had broken him out of prison and they had planned it well enough so that nobody had noticed.

None of the prison guards knew Ozai well enough to tell the difference.

The people tending to the dead, washing them and laying them out weren't intimately acquainted with the deceased either.

Even Iroh and Lord Zuko couldn't be faulted for being fooled.

Neither of them had seen Ozai up close for years. And even if they had, the differences were tiny….nothing anybody but a lover was likely to notice.

A lover. Her. But if it hadn't been for her little tea-session with Iroh, her attendance at this wake would have been supremely unlikely. The exchange would have gone unnoticed.

Ozai was still out there, somewhere.

Unless….her mind was playing tricks on her again?

She went back to the dead man and checked her findings. No, the scars, the birthmark…still missing. Hair pattern still wrong.

She returned to her seat. Got up again and checked the miniscule disparities again. Still there.

Paced around the room. Returned to the stone slab and looked again. Discreetly checked some more places. Found more differences.

It REALLY wasn't him.

He was still out there. In secret.

She felt faint.

All her grief, all her anger, all her desperation….the last four days had nearly destroyed her, torn her apart.

And yes, the man she had loved was dead. Well and truly dead.

But the Phoenix King was still out there. Alive.

...

...

The doctor's hands were shaking as he let the injection apparatus drop into the metal bowl sitting on the nightstand. The needle clanked as it hit the bowl, while the bladder folded in on itself with a near soundless little puff.

He took a deep breath and looked down at his patient, who had slipped into unconsciousness again. It was a blessing that the man was in prime shape, otherwise the drugs that kept him deeply asleep might have killed him.

Of course they had to time the injections so that at least once a day, their effect wore off a bit. Even as strong and healthy as his patient was, letting him go for days on end without anything to drink was likely to destabilize his condition sufficiently to kill him. So they let the patient come a bit awake each day…just enough so that the man wouldn't choke on the sweetened tea and the chicken broth that they dribbled into his mouth.

Getting the dosage of the drugs right had been very, very tricky. For someone who, as rumour had it, was no longer a firebender, his patient certainly was metabolizing the drugs as fast as a normal firebender would.

The doctor dabbed at his sweat covered brow with his sleeve. His nose wrinkled in distaste as he got a whiff of his own body odour. He hadn't changed his clothes in the last four days and his usually pristine robes were spattered with the dried remains of herbal concoctions and (he shivered) droplets of royal blood.

Being the personal physician of one of the richest merchants in the Fire Nation, if not the entire world, had always been a bit….challenging, and while he sure had appreciated being able to conduct his medical research without the usual constraints his peers were subjected to by the law, the pressure he was under right now was a becoming a bit more than even he was comfortable with. Plus, he had a tendency to get a bit sea-sick and the roiling of the ship certainly wasn't doing his queasy stomach any favours.

Normally, he would have vented some of his frustration by giving his unconscious patient a solid kick in the ribs, but no, with this one, it was NOT something he could afford to do.

When he was younger, his most burning ambition had been to become the Firelord's personal physician and he had bribed, black-mailed and in two cases committed murder in order to become the most renown and respected personal physician in the capitol, if not the entire country, hoping to enhance his chances at snatching that much coveted position. But for some odd reason, the new Firelord had never, during the entirety of his reign, appointed anybody as his personal physician.

All things considered, their beloved sovereign had probably been too young and too healthy to worry about anything but an occasional case of the sniffles. As for the bruises, cuts and sprains that he received in those vicious "training" fights he was famous for? Ah well….the Firelord wasn't the first, nor the last soldier, or rather former soldier, who eschewed the help of a physician, instead relying on the help of a few salves, ice and some solidly wrapped bandaging.

It was a bit strange though, to find the ambitions of his youth fulfilled now, even if it was only indirectly, while he was in the employ of another. Maybe not becoming the Firelord's personal physician had been the better alternative, for as it turned out, being out of the eye of the public and in the employ of a man with much wealth and little conscience held its own rewards.

For one last time, he checked his patient's pulse, breathing and reflexes. They were exactly as they should be. He called his apprentice over to watch over the patient while he went off to grab a quick bite to eat…and maybe a sponge bath and a change of clothes were in order too. The dose he'd given his patient this time had been smaller, and so the risk of any complications arising was much smaller. He'd be just down the corridor and if his patient took a turn for the worse, he'd hear it if his apprentice called for him and would be at his patient's side within less than a minute. The thought of having to go off board looking like a homeless drunk if he didn't change into something fresh was loathsome enough to risk the wrath of his employer.

He had made it only a few steps down the hallway when a silky-smooth voice stopped him in his tracks.

"My my….don't you think you're a bit far from our most venerable but sadly rather indisposed guest, dear doctor?"

The doctor turned and immediately sank down into a deep obeisance.

Light footsteps approached and a pair of dark red velvet slippers stopped right in front of his face. It looked a bit like their owner's feet had been dipped in blood. One of the slipper-clad feet slid forward and nudged the doctor sharply under the chin.

"Ah, don't be silly now. Do get up. You're so dirty, you'll smudge up the carpets otherwise. And you don't want to ruin my precious carpets, do you?"

"No, your excellency, I do not." The doctor cringed and then, slowly and carefully rose back to his feet, his eyes hastily roaming over the rugs, checking if he had left any marks. When he found that he hadn't, he slowly released the breath which he had been holding.

He looked up into the face of his master and bowed briefly once more. With his master, it never hurt to show a bit more deference than required.

It was astonishing really, that one so young and so innocuous looking had risen to such power and influence in just a few years, and without many people noticing too.

Granted, the Nishima family hadn't been exactly poor to begin with, but their youngest, and, by now, only, son certainly had risen beyond anything his father had ever dreamed of.

The young Nishima had a rather plump figure, the result of a penchant for over-indulging at mealtimes….and between mealtimes too. Flattering tongues referred to his master's shape as "well-rounded" and it matched the rosy face, soft brown eyes and the snub nose that the doctor had heard some of the ladies at court refer to as "cute".

In addition to the rather soft looking physique, there always was a strand of hair or two that escaped from his master's topknot, giving him an air of absentminded carelessness.

Combined with his tendency to wear clothes in drab ash-browns and dull dark reds, his whole appearance was rather unremarkable. It had taken the doctor a painful experience or two until he had learned the truth of the old saying "not to judge a scroll by its' casing".

"Now, my good man, tell me, how is our most cherished guest? I hope he is doing well?" The melodious tones of his employer's voice sent shivers down the physician's spine.

"Ahem….uh….He is well, your excellency, very well. His condition is still stable. I have given him a reduced dose though, so he should wake up right on schedule."

Nishima delightedly clapped his hands. "Oh, that's so wonderful isn't it? To have him here with us is such an honour, no? I think I'll just sneak in and have a look. What do you think? Should I? Really, I'm exited as if it were my birthday!"

Stretching his lips into a cheery smile that matched his employers, the doctor nodded vigorously. "By all means your excellency, you should, you really should! I'm sure that, once he wakes up, he will be quite impressed at how well you have taken care of him. Very impressed!"

A high-pitched giggle escaped Nishima's lips, which he instantly hid behind the sleeves of his robe, much like a shy young girl would.

"Oh, I'm certain he will be. I've been such a gracious host, no? I'm certain he won't mind if I pop in on him now. And you, my dear doctor…" Nishima looked the doctor up and down, a slight frown settling between his brows. "…you, should go and change into something more appropriate. You look like one of those dirty Earth Kingdom refugees. Really, if I weren't around to remind you to take better care of yourself, you would SO go to seed, no?"

Eyes wide and that cheery smile still fixed on his lips, the doctor nodded and bowed. Nishima dismissed him with a languid wave of his hand and the doctor turned, not-quite running all the way to his quarters. He had to make himself look presentable. It wouldn't do to disappoint his master.

* * *

**Author's note:**

Whew. SO glad I'm done with this chapter. It was a bitch to write. I revised and rewrote it more times than I can count and I ended up with nearly 30 pages, which I cut down to the above 12. This is kinda the turning point in the longer story arc, so getting it right was very important. I hope I managed.

**To RedRose: **

I am incredibly pleased that you find this chapter well written. This in only my second go at writing fanfiction, so I'm very happy that my writing skills seem to be o.k.. Writing wise, I have to thank two authors for some bloody brilliant advice: Asuka Kureru and Jim Butcher. The first wrote a great article about how to do "Show, don't tell" and the second wrote quite a bit in his journal about building a plot and keeping things difficult for your characters ^_^

Also, I agree that even though there are a few good Ozai stories out there, they are very hard to find. De facto, I started writing "Owned by Fire" as a kind of DIY remedy for my acute Ozai withdrawal. That and because I couldn't believe that the guy would stay celibate for all these years after Ursa left and I couldn't picture him putting up with the demands a mistress would make either.

**To Artemis1253:**

Glad you enjoyed the last chapter so much. I had a lot of fun writing it too. Kian and Ozai are both proud and head-strong and watching them clash until sparks fly is definitely entertaining. ^_^ Also, I loved squeezing in some Fire Nation background.

**To Mom****oSenpai8907: **

I'm glad you enjoyed the first few bits…but I'm also relieved that you didn't identify with Kian's position for too long. Kian is going through some really awful experiences here and in RL, I wouldn't wish that on anyone ^_~

**To lassa:**

Thanks, I'm glad you liked it!

**To sunnygirl13:**

I'm sorry that it took me a bit longer than anticipated to write the next chapter, but I'm crossing my fingers that you'll find some of the emotional intensity which you liked about the last chapter in this chapter too.

I loved writing the last chapter and I'm seriously blown away by the fact that you and many others seem to have enjoyed it as much as I did.

I like "Romeo and Juliet" type of settings and making a waterbender and Sozin's grandson fall in love with each other was bound to get messy in very, very interesting ways….especially since they're both fighting their own feelings as well as each other. Regrettably, our dear Firelord is fiendishly skilled at squashing any vexing feelings he might have that stand in the way of his dreams of conquest and glory…..o_O

I'm very happy indeed that you had so much fun watching them struggle! ^_^

**To Leddie:**

*g* Yes, I feel very, very, very appreciated to get a review from someone who has never written one before! ^_^

It makes your review / comment for the last chapter especially near and dear to my heart and I hope that the experience will entice you to comment again, and on other people's stories too.

Personally, I've always found that commenting on stories / art is half the fun. You get to chat with the author and with others about the story, how you interpret what's going on and you can speculate on what might happen next. It lets your own mind run wild, even as you're reading / waiting for the next instalment.

I was happy that you thought the story intriguing, for it means that I'm right on track and I sure hope I will be able to keep it that way. Also, the fact that you found the dynamics between Kian and Ozai believable and intense was a HUGE compliment and I'd like to say "thank you" for that.

Pairing an OC with the main villain can easily be a recipe for disaster, with readers going "What the hell? Why on earth would the character from the show do THAT? Why should he be interested in HER of all people?". Keeping Ozai and indeed the rest of the show's cast in character while delving into their pasts and also developing them in the present is hard to do and knowing that my readers think I'm doing it right takes a huge weight of my shoulders!

As for where I'm taking Ozai with this story….well, it IS a redemption story! But in order to keep THAT one believable, our favourite evil Firelord has yet to come a loooong way! ^_^

**To ArrayePL:**

Thank you once more for giving the rough version of this chapter a once-over. I hope you like this expanded and improved version just as much as you liked the earlier one. I think I managed to make that one transition that was still a bit rough a bit smoother.

Also, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that you'll find this chapter every bit as heart-rending, sad and beautiful as it was when it wasn't quite finished yet! And that you enjoyed the first real glimpse at post-series Ozai we've gotten so far in this story. There'll be more coming, slowly, but surely. ^_^

I'd like to thank you once more for your input and your take on the story. Both have been very valuable to the writing process and to the way I've set things up around here (Note to self: With a setup like this, always include an explicit "NOT a deathfic!" warning…. *headdesks*).

Your feedback was the last little push I needed to get this darn chapter done and so it's mostly you fault that people get to read this chapter now instead of some time after Easter ^_~

I look forward to seeing you around!


	7. Rising through the Deep

**Disclaimer: **

Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:**

Caught in a deep sleep, he drifts between the past and the present.

Soon though, he will be washed ashore onto the rough coast that is called "here" and "now".

**Author's note:**

Pairing Ozai/Ursa.

Mention of Ozai/OC.

Het.

Contains flashbacks that start 35 years before the beginning of the series.

Sequel to the previous chapters, but it can also be read as a stand-alone.

**Warnings:**

Some violence. NC-17, just to be on the safe side.

Also: VERY extensive use of flashbacks. Please forgive me, but before I focus entirely on Ozai, I needed to create some more background to work with. Especially concerning Iroh and Ozai's relationship and Ozai's view on the world.

SPECIAL THANKS

Special thanks go to my beloved Sunshader, who normally hates this type of story, but who has read and critiqued every chapter so far, giving me important input and insights that I needed in order to make this story better.

Another special thanks goes to ArrayePL, who had to wait an awfully long time for this chapter to get published, even though she gave the almost finished version a read and gave me feedback on it ages ago. Thank you, both for your feedback and your patience!

* * *

.

.

He is three years old.

The arms of his mother are warm and gentle around him as her soft song lulls him into sleep.

.

.

He is five.

The collar of his white robes is so tight, it feels like it is choking him. His cheek still smarts from where his father slapped him. Ashamed, he rubs at the tears streaking his face. His father is right. He shouldn't dishonour the memory of his mother by acting like such a cry-baby.

.

.

He is seven.

Despite the protective bandaging around his hands and fingers, he has started leaving bloody marks on the wooden training manikin as he hits it again and again. Yet he does not stop. He'd rather bleed than give in to the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes. And as long as he focuses on his exercises, he can keep himself together.

It's not until someone grabs his wrist that he notices that he isn't alone anymore.

Iroh's grip is firm but not harsh as he inspects his younger siblings' ragged knuckles and then quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Huh….let me see….it's the end of the semester, isn't it? They announced everybody's grades today, if I'm not mistaken."

Looking up at his older brother, whom he sees all too rarely, he nods numbly, defeat written all over his face. Iroh smiles at him somewhat ruefully and tugs at his wrist, pulling him away from the bloodied training device.

"Come on….I'll show you some of the advanced moves. If you can master one or two of them, father will forget about your grades not being perfect." Iroh's eyes crinkle as he winks at him.

He starts following Iroh, his heart suddenly lighter at the prospect of appeasing his father's anger.

Iroh chuckles, and then sighs wistfully. "Let me tell you a secret, 'zai…The Fire Lord was never satisfied with all of MY grades either!".

And just like that, his budding hope crumbles to dust again, and he stops abruptly in his tracks, bringing both of them to a jarring halt.

What Iroh just said can't be true….

The Fire Lord NEVER stops reminding him how much better at everything Iroh was when he was younger.

It doesn't do for a prince of the blood NOT to be top of his school in everything. It is unthinkable.

Iroh must be mocking him, just like so many others have done today. He angrily yanks his wrist from the young lieutenant's grip, ready to bolt.

Iroh turns though, calm and still smiling and there's no hint of malice or spiteful glee in his eyes….unlike in the eyes of his classmates today, as his father icily lambasted him in front of everybody for his scholastic inadequacies. Uncertain, he shifts on his feet, but the steadfast warmth and sincerity in his brother's smile hold him in place. He swallows. If what Iroh just said is true…then maybe…

Iroh sees the hope in his brother's eyes and pats his back, grinning. "Seriously, you should have heard the old man's tirade when it turned out I'd gotten a barely passing grade in calculus! Can you imagine? Our most esteemed sovereign turned so red in the face, I thought he was going to have an apoplexy in front of the entire school! He was practically frothing at the mouth!"

It's like a melting glacier crumbling. Slow, but inevitable. His shoulders relax….an inch or so. Iroh's grin grows broader still. He blinks as he dares to imagine their father…..cool, controlled Fire Lord Azulon….completely losing it….and in public at that. Iroh is beaming from ear to ear now, and there's a twinkle in the young man's eye that reassures him that yes, it DID happen.

For a second, they look at each other, Iroh now quietly chuckling, he himself with eyes wide as saucers. They both dissolve into a fit of snickers at exactly the same moment and it's then and there that he realizes that whatever happens, Iroh has his back…..and that one day, he'll be strong and cunning enough to have Iroh's back too….and then, they will be able to take on ANYTHING.

.

.

He is ten.

Running through the halls of the palace is undignified for a prince, so he doesn't, but he has a hard time pacing himself. He certainly is walking too fast for Akio and Shuzo to keep up with him without running out of breath. But then, they can't control their breath as well as he does. Slightly smug, he thinks about the dumbfounded look they'll have on their faces a few days from now…once he has mastered how to breathe fire. After a year at the front, Iroh returned today and his elder brother promised to teach him that particular move next time he was around.

.

.

He is thirteen.

It was supposed to be just a routine tour of one of the newly conquered Earth Kingdom territories, but they were ambushed and now the battle rages all around them. In the melee, close quarters make firebending a dangerous business….the risk of hitting one of their own if an enemy dodges is too high and so he mainly sticks to his swords.

His blood sings in his veins as he strikes, evades a blow aimed at his head, strikes again…and his opponent, a man twice his size and three times his ages, wielding a huge, spiked club, falls to his blades. He looks over his shoulder…just in time to see another one of their attackers fall to the ground right behind him, felled by Iroh's hand. His older brother gives him a thumbs up, and, grinning like fiends, both of them plunge back into the fight.

.

.

He is nineteen.

It's not his first Agni Kai, but never before has he entered into one feeling sick to his stomach.

On the other side of the field, he can hear Akio joking with Shuzo and the others.

They're not taking this seriously.

Sure….it's been a long time since anybody actually got killed in an Agni Kai. Usually, at the most extreme, the loser will walk away, badly burned, maybe even maimed, but alive. And his friends have only ever watched him during training fights, where he never goes full out, so Akio sincerely believes he has a chance to win.

They don't know how good he really is.

And they don't know that this morning, Fire Lord Azulon summoned him and made his will painfully clear: His son is NOT to let it pass when somebody publicly questions the wisdom of continuing the war. Not even if that someone is his son's best friend.

An example has to be made.

The fight ends with the shrill, wailing shrieks of Akio's girlfriend reverberating throughout the courtyard and the charred body of his friend crumpling to the ground at his feet. As chaos erupts around him, with Shuzo and the others shouting in anger and outrage and the guards filing into the square to restore order, all he can think of is that this way, at least Akio's family will be spared the dishonour of seeing their son branded and executed as a traitor.

.

.

He is twenty.

After a year spent sailing the icy southern seas, his father has summoned him home. The bustling activity at the capitol and the to-and-fro of court intrigue never bothered him before, but now they grate on his nerves. He wouldn't have minded spending more time near the South Pole. He never stops being fascinated by the vastness and purity of the frozen plains there and he enjoys the quiet and calm that settles all around him when he's on watch, when only the whistling of the wind will keep him company.

Still, he is the prince and even though he is but second-born, he has obligations.

His bride-to-be is an orphan, a ward of his father and heiress to a vast fortune. Her dowry will go a long way to fill the war-coffers of the Fire Lord.

Lady Ursa herself is a pleasant surprise. He had expected some giggly, bubble-headed, high-strung court beauty. Instead, he finds his fiancé to be calm, level-headed, intelligent and of a serene beauty that extends far beyond her milk-white skin and silky hair.

They fit each other well.

She enjoys hearing his stories about the world beyond the borders of the Fire Nation.

He likes to listen to her as she softly sings to herself while cataloguing the herbs she has gathered; and he will bring her scrolls and books with recipes for all kinds of herbal concoctions that he unearths for her in the palaces' library.

She will gift him with brushes and inks, fripperies he'd never buy for himself….but since they're gifts from his fiancé, it'd be impolite not to make use of them. It feels good to have a valid excuse to paint more.

Within a year of his return they are married.

They never talk about it, but some nights, she will wake up, crying out a name that is not his.

His own dreams are haunted by a pair of summer-blue eyes, so he can hardly fault her.

At least his little thief is still out there, safely tucked away into a prison cell. Lady Ursa, on the other hand, has to live with the knowledge that the ashes of her heart's desire have been carried away by the Earth Kingdom winds. A romance between a lady of the court, ward of the Fire Lord himself, and a penniless young scribe simply is not acceptable. Once their almost-affair was discovered, the young scribe was sent to the front of the battle lines. He didn't last a week.

As arranged marriages go, both of them know that it could have been worse.

.

.

He is twenty-two.

The lanterns in the garden are out, burned to cinders as they flared up when he came to this private little corner of the palace complex. For the first few hours, he paced back and forth in the darkness like a caged Ermine-Panther. By now though, he is sitting on the grass, leaning against the tree next to the turtle-duck pond, looking out over the glass-clear water that reflects the light of the full moon. The grass beneath his fingers smoulders into ash as he wonders if he will have to wear white today.

How could things go so wrong so fast? Last morning, everything was all right. He and Ursa were sitting here, by the water, and they both joked about what for a strong fighter their child would be, going by the kicks they both could feel when he placed his hand on her big, round belly.

By the late afternoon, the carpets in their quarters were soaked in her blood. He immediately called for help when Ursa started bleeding and within moments, their usually quiet rooms were bustling with doctors, midwives and servants, his unusually scared and fragile looking wife the centre of the commotion.

He had stayed by Ursa's side, holding her hand, but as servants undressed her and doctors began poking and prodding at her body, he could not keep himself from snarling and glaring at them. More than once, a servant or a midwife, unnerved by his presence, had dropped something and in the end, through teeth clenched in pain, Ursa had asked him to leave.

The morning is not far off as he hears footsteps approach. His whole body tenses up like a coiled spring, but he relaxes as a hand-held fire flares to life and he can see that the new-comer is no other than Iroh. His older brother's eyes twinkle with merriment and his smile is a mile wide as he plops down on the grass beside his younger sibling and offers him the bottle of spirits that he has brought with him. Hands shaking, he reaches for it and takes a deep draught. As the alcohol burns its' way down his throat he can't help but think that it's a good thing that he's already sitting down, because right now, his knees feel so weak, they couldn't support the weight of a fly, let alone his.

He hands the bottle back to his older brother and Iroh slaps him on the back, congratulates him on the birth of his son and then tells him that he should get himself back to his living quarters, double time, because Ursa was drop-dead tired….and refusing to go to sleep without her husband by her side.

He doesn't have to be told twice and for once, he drops all dignity and races through the palace hallways at a full run, his heart so light that he feels like he's flying.

.

.

He is twenty-five.

In the darkness of the stormy night, he waits for his brother to return to his rooms. It's a good thing that Iroh's wife and son are away, visiting distant relatives. The less they are involved in this shameful affair, the better.

The moment Iroh comes through the door, lightning tears the skies apart, plunging the unlit chamber into flashes of pitiless white light and shadows of unrelenting black.

Iroh's eyes narrow when he sees him standing by the window. The older man calls fire with a quick jab of his hand and the candles in the room blaze to life with a hiss.

"What do you want Ozai?" Iroh's tone is gruff, like the bark of a dog that's not sure if it needs to bite to defend itself.

"Why such a cold welcome Iroh?"

With a slow, almost languid movement, he steps away from the window, closer to Iroh. He stops just out of arms reach.

Usually, at this point, they would have greeted each other with a hug and a clap to each other's shoulder. There would be merry grins and raucous mention of their recent exploits and adventures, to be shared over a cup of tea.

Today though, he doesn't even bother to bow politely.

There's just a hard little smile playing around his lips, perilous as patch of ice hidden beneath a bit of snow.

The wariness on Iroh's face deepens into a scowl.

Smirking, he flicks an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of his robe and continues, his voice smooth and warm, almost belying the thorns hidden beneath the courteous words.

"I'm here because it is only proper that a younger brother come and greet his elder. Especially if the elder has just returned from a dangerous mission…..Hunting down a high-ranking fellow Admiral who has turned traitor to his country and his Lord…Although from what I've heard, you haven't exactly been….successful."

Outside, lightning tears the sky apart once more, followed by a rumbling thunder that shakes the foundation of the palace. Neither of them does as much as flinch. He raises one eyebrow at his elder, challenging him to deny the unspoken accusation.

Iroh snorts, then shrugs. "Yes, he got away. So what?"

He narrows his eyes at the flippant response, but then smiles, the expression as sharp as freshly broken glass.

"Of course, brother, what was I thinking…. The defection of an army officer, and a high ranking Admiral at that, is nothing the royal family should worry about. I'm certain father only spent the last few hours questioning you because he was bored out of his mind otherwise. And until tomorrow, he will have all but forgotten that he threatened to exile you for your failure to complete the task you were entrusted with. Never mind that for generations, our people have spilt their blood on the battle field to keep our Nation safe….If Prince Iroh is perfectly content to let a friend of his forsake his posts, his comrades and his duty, then I'm sure no one in the Fire Nation will think of it as a slap in the face of those who have sacrificed their lives."

Hands clenching, Iroh growls at him, his usually mellow bass thunderous like a rockslide high up in the mountains.

"The people of the Fire Nation don't know the whole story…and it would seem that YOU don't either."

"I know enough." He drops his artificially calm composure and spits out his answer through clenched teeth.

"I know that while our army fought down an earthbender rebellion at Sheng Mei, Jeong Jeong's favourite WHORE got caught in the crossfire…and that when Jeong Jeong saw her die, he lost it, attacked his own subordinates and then DESERTED his POST. You were sent to bring him down, but when you actually cornered him, you backed off on some trumped-up excuse and let him escape. You deliberately failed your duty and everyone knows it, even if there is no proof. The gossips at court are already whispering that even if you are a brilliant military strategist, you are weak-willed and soft."

Iroh punches the wall and plaster cracks beneath his fist. Then, with a wordless snarl, he turns away from the wall, hands still balled into fists, back hunched and shoulders sagging. It's strange how Iroh, his larger-than-life-sibling who once made plans with him to conquer the world by fire and sword, suddenly looks so small.

For a moment, nothing but a smothering and oppressive silence fills the room. Iroh's voice is quiet as he finally speaks up, his words hardly more than a whisper.

"She was his WIFE, 'zai…..his PREGNANT wife…. and the massacre at Sheng Mei was an immense TRAGEDY. Our soldiers were out of control and innocent people got hurt…women….children….and I'd hoped that you at least would understand, even if father doesn't."

He sighs, the sound halfway caught between weariness and exasperation. He too remembers that not so long ago, he and Iroh thought so much alike, they could finish each other's sentences. They can't anymore, far from it, and the knowledge leaves a rancid taste sitting in his mouth.

"Yes, Iroh, the suppression of the rebellion at Sheng-Mei could have gone better….but still….. A Fire Nation noble has no business dishonouring his family by marrying an earthkingdom trader's daughter. And things wouldn't have turned out so badly if the rebels had seen reason and surrendered sooner. It wasn't our fault that things got so bad."

"No, 'zai. It WAS our fault, our responsibility….and we failed. We should have…."

"The Fire Nation DOES NOT FAIL, Iroh. The Heir to the Throne DOES NOT FAIL. And a deserter can't be allowed to go unpunished." His voice is firm now, but not harsh.

Certainly, neither his tone nor his words justify the way his older brother straightens and looks at him as if truly seeing him for the first time since entering the room. Then, Iroh shuts his eyes and reaches up to massage the bridge of his nose, as if he was feeling a huge headache coming on. When he opens his eyes again, a steely resolve has settled around him, like a suit of well-worn plate-mail.

"Those are not your words, 'zai. Those are father's words."

"Those are the FIRE LORD'S words, Iroh, the words of the man to whom we all owe our loyalty, our LIVES."

"Yes…..and the Fire Lord has the right to our loyalty, our life, because it is his duty, his purpose, to protect our people, to do what is best for them. Listen 'zai….. Even if we are at war, we need to keep our sense of compassion, or the future of our Nation will be a dark one indeed. Think of how you would have felt if Ursa had died when she gave birth to Zuko….you would not have been in your right mind either."

Iroh's eyes and voice soften.

"'zai…..We need to make allowances for situations like that. Jeong Jeong is a good man, a good admiral and a loyal citizen. I have no doubt that he will return once he comes to his senses. He will make his apologies to the Fire Lord, face some disciplinary action and that will be it. Our soldiers and our citizens need to know that we will do right by them, even when personal hardships might lead to some temporary, irrational behaviour. Otherwise, before long, there will be dissenters and rebels within our own homeland…."

He can't help but sneer at that. "Iroh…..you have been abroad too long. There already ARE rebels and dissenters within our own homeland…and they are being dealt with. It does not pay to go soft on traitors who deserve no mercy."

Iroh's eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, like that of a fish caught on dry land. Then he snaps it shut again and it settles in a thin, hard line.

"What did you expect me to do then? Kill my best friend like you killed yours?"

"YES Iroh. That IS what you should have done. You could have ended your FRIEND'S misery in an Agni Kai. Or you could have arrested him and taken him back here to face justice. Instead, you let him slip away like a coward. I did my duty back then when I had to. Why couldn't you do yours now?"

"Duty, Ozai? Since when is it our duty to murder our friends? Tell me that! I was with you the night after Akio died, remember? I was the one who held you when you couldn't stop shivering and your teeth chattered so hard it sounded like hail coming down."

His patience snaps like a twig in an unexpected storm and before he knows it, he's shouting, anger roiling like a smoke-cloud through his voice.

"And what makes you think that doing what is right is always pretty or the easy way out? In case you hadn't noticed in your quest for military glory and fine, rare tea, this whole affair isn't about YOU or ME. We are princes of the Fire Nation. We have a SACRED DUTY to lead our people into a better future, a better world. And if we have to sacrifice ourselves and ALL we hold dear for the greater glory of the Fire Nation, then SO BE IT. I did my duty back then, towards my Lord and my country. Just like you, as the future Fire Lord should have done NOW. Take my advice Iroh, go and find your backbone again, if you want to be a Fire Lord worthy of that title one day."

He then brushes past Iroh, bumping into his shoulder, and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

They don't talk to each other for months afterwards.

.

.

He is thirty.

Smoke lies thick in the air and the pungent tang of burnt silk and wood permeates everything. There's not much left of his father's study.

When a few weeks ago, the Fire Lord received news that his grand-son Lu Ten had been killed at the siege of Ba Sing Se, he had ranted and raved for hours about how his eldest son would avenge Lu Ten's death and raze the Earth Kingdom to the ground. In the days afterwards, Fire Lord Azulon had ordered new troops to be levied and had passed a new law that lowered the minimum age for young men and women to join the army from 16 to 13, for certainly Iroh would be in need of fresh troops when he annihilated the population of the Earth Kingdom.

The news that just arrived…..that General Iroh abandoned the siege at Ba Sing Se and sent his men home….it did not go down well. He has never seen their father so furious.

Iroh has much to answer for.

.

.

He is thirty-seven.

He stares at the wooden bowl in his hands, tracing the slight flaw in the pattern below the bowl's edge with his finger and a slow grin starts to spread over his face. Finally. Three months of waiting have been long enough.

He has fought too many battles not to know that even the best-laid plans can fall apart as soon as the fight begins. The day his son announced that the Avatar was still alive and then turned traitor to his Nation, he knew he might need an escape plan if things went wrong.

The defeat, when it had come, had tasted bitter and ugly, but he was no stranger to either and he had learned how to work around temporary setbacks. So, when the door of his prison cell had clanged shut behind him, he had smirked inwardly, knowing the walls and bars wouldn't hold him for too long.

The arrangements he has made with Nishima will pay off after all.

Granted…Nishima has no honour. He is a murderous criminal and cannot be trusted. But still, the combination of blackmail, assassins hidden amongst Nishima's retinue (that he let Nishima know about in no uncertain terms) and the promise of great profit that is to be made with him on the throne, he figures that the hold he has on Nishima will still be good enough to assure the young merchant's loyalty….for a while.

Having Nishima wake up with a quite large and quite dead shark spider beside him and a little note with his royal greetings had been a nice touch. From what his spies told him, the young man had wet his pants at the sight of the highly poisonous creature.

Nishima owns, amongst other things, several large factories, one of which made the wooden bowls that went to the prisons and which were used to serve food to the inmates. The bowls saw some rough treatment and so they had to be pretty solid. The bottoms especially were quite thick. Also, all of the bowls were decorated with a simple pattern. After all, even prisoners deserved something nice in their lives…and the inflated payment for the non-existent artist who had allegedly designed the pattern was just one way of many to squirrel money away through the means of creative book-keeping.

Yes….if Zuko wanted to ruin the Fire Nation and play footsie with their enemies, he'd have to do it with an almost empty treasury. Azula would have been granted access to those hidden funds. Eventually. IF she showed her mettle as Fire Lord…..

Going by what he had overheard from the prison-guards, Zuko, on the other hand, was searching for more than just his mother these days.

He inhaled deeply, a smile of dark contentment spreading over his lips.

Working together with Nishima, it had been easy to have a percentage of the bowls altered to his specifications. Each of the bowls had had a small hollow space carved into the bottom. Into that hollow a metal vial had been inserted, filled with a special poison. Then, the bottom had been made whole again, sealed by gluing an exactly fitting piece of wood over the hollow and the vial. The bowls had then been lacquered which further covered up the fact that they had been tampered with. As a finishing touch, the pattern of these bowls had been slightly changed, something that, to the uninitiated, could simply be put down to an error of production. It was quite ingenious, really.

All he had to do was to wait until one of those bowls came his way. It had taken a few months for that to happen, but that only served to make the whole act more believable: the defeated sovereign, unjustly imprisoned by the usurpers, finally finding his freedom in death. Or at least so people would believe…until they discovered that his "corpse" had mysteriously disappeared on its' way to the Hall of Memories.

Now, with one of the "flawed" bowls finally in his hands, he pries the vial out of the bottom of the bowl, and hides it away. Then, for good measure, he smashes the bowl to kindling so no evidence of his trickery will be found. The broken bowl will stir no suspicions. In the last few months, he has flung a cup of tea that came with his breakfast at a guard, kicked his water bucket around the cell and on one memorable occasion managed to set his mattress aflame. Ah….the scent of fire, of things burning, had been sweet indeed. Thanks to those childish tantrums, a smashed bowl now is not seen as out of character.

A few days later, ironically close to his birthday, he brings out the vial when he is sure no one is watching, opens it, swallows the poison it contains, and then for good measure swallows the vial too, so no one will have a clue to what has really happened.

The poison works fast and before the sun rises again, his heartbeat becomes so slow and shallow, it is barely there. The same goes for his breath. His body becomes stiff and cold, as if caught in the rigor of death. None of this matters though, for as the poison pulls his body into a semblance of death, it does the same for his mind. He does not fight it.

In the Capitol, down to and including the prison, the dead are collected by the servants of the Temple of the Heavenly Spirits. They are supposed to be as saintly as the monks the serve, but Nishima runs a big organization that has its' fingers almost everywhere and so some of the servants of the temple are a lot more loyal to Nishima than to any kind of Heavenly Spirit. According to the plan, they will deliver his "corpse" to Nishima instead of bringing it to the Hall of Memories. Then, much later, they are supposed to report back to the temple, claiming they have been waylaid and robbed of his "corpse" on the way. Granted, all these machinations will only delay the discovery of his disappearance for a few hours, but it will be enough to make his getaway. Nishima will help him escape to a prearranged hideout from where he can gather those still loyal to the Fire Nation and then he will finally eliminate his enemies, one by one. The enemies of the Fire Nation will die, either by his hand or by his command….all of them, including his son and his brother.

.

.

He is thirty-eight.

He wakes up to darkness and pain… and to the knowledge that something has gone terribly wrong.

.

* * *

.

.

.

**for Holy Star**

I'm pleased as punch that you read this whole thing, including the Burnt to Ashes Arc. It's not quite finished yet, but from now on, we'll be switching a bit between what's going on with Kian and what's going on with Ozai, with the emphasis heavily on what's happening to him.

Concerning "that other OC/Ozai that has been roaming around", there are quite a few OC/Ozai stories out there, even quite a few OC slave girl/ Ozai ones, so I've got plenty of company in that genre ^_~

And yes, Ozai is very much alive. After all, this story is about HIM and for all that I love flashbacks, I can't do the entire story that way….and wouldn't want to either! I'm much too far intrigued by the question of "What happens next?".

Still, I'm not only doing flashbacks because I enjoy exploring the characters' backstory. The TV series itself implies a lot of things about Ozai and the Fire Nation, but it leaves more open to speculation than it answers, and so (via flashbacks) I need to build some solid background for the characters, so things will make sense within a specific context when people read them.

The flashbacks help me to flesh out the characters a bit, so readers can see where the characters are coming from when they act / think / feel a certain way.

From now on though, there'll be a lot less of those flashbacks. The stage is set, the players are in place….let's see what comes next!

**for AnimeWrestlingDonuts**

Thank you for the fave! And I take it as a compliment of the highest order that I got you to read a type of story that you normally wouldn't. ^_^

Writing a believable OC is hard. Even harder when that OC is romantically involved with one of the main characters. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I'll be able to uphold the standard I seem to have set so far….for the catastrophes I'm hoping to avoid, google "sparklypoo" and "Pirate Monkey"… ^_^

**for Leddie**

You're back! *waves wildly and bounces up and down*

Now I'm thrice flattered, for you not only wrote a review (and a first one at that), but now you've followed up with a second one. I am VERY much honoured ^_^

About life flying by, you're right, it does. There's so much going on in RL for me, it took me ages to post this chapter….*sigh*.

I'm glad I didn't disappoint you with the last chapter and I'm hoping you'll like this one too. And yes, we ARE getting to the juicy bits…albeit a bit slowly.

By the way, you're right about chapter 5. It was a bitch to write and I'm not entirely happy with it either. There were a LOT of twists and turns in that chapter and a lot of character development that got crammed in just a few lines….only to entirely change it's course again over the next paragraph, several times over. So yeah, it ended feeling a bit disjointed and patchwork-y even to me.

This chapter has a rough spot or two too I think (I'm still not very happy with the Iroh/Ozai fight…but I spent a few day fiddling with it and if I don't post it now, I'll get so fed up with it I won't post anymore at all.) Maybe, in a year or two, when I review the whole shebang, I'll come up with an idea on how to make it all better.

Still, if you ever find the time for a more detailed critique, it'd be very much appreciated, since it might give me some ideas on how to smooth things over a bit. I KNOW though how difficult it can be to come by a bit of free time to write a review and such, so if you can't find the time, I'll understand completely. Your review and the review of the others so far have gone a long way to reassure me that I seem to be doing right by this story and the characters, so that already means a lot to me!

**for RedRose**

I'm grinning like a fool as I read your review, I'm THAT happy that you liked the last chapter too. I know progress in this new chapter has been slow, but I promise there'll be lots of "things working out" (…..or rather catastrophes running their course ^_~) in the upcoming chapters. I do promise a happy ending though! (…..for the main characters that is. I'm making no promises for the minor OC's…..)

**for ArrayePL**

I know I've been trying your patience. And I'm unbelievably happy that for all the waiting, you're still sticking with this story (…even if it's been WEEKS (months….?) since you beta'ed this chapter and I still didn't post. Thanks for that too!)

And yes, you're right. The bodies were exchanged after Ozai was proclaimed dead. The casket they carried the body in had a false bottom and a hidden compartment. They arrived with the fake Ozai, who was already dead, hidden in that compartment. They laid the real, poisoned Ozai in the top compartment and somewhere along the way, all they had to do was turn the casket around, so the "fake" Ozai was lying on top (the casket looked the same in the lower and the top half). When they arrived at the Hall of Memories, they unpacked the "fake" Ozai and laid him out on the stone slab and then left with the casket and the real Ozai inside. And yes, as you can see, you are perfectly justified with your bad feelings about Nishima. Nishima is a bad man. A VERY bad man.

As for what Kian will do….THAT will have to be dealt with in one of the next chapters. ^_~


	8. Falling from the Heavens

**Disclaimer:**

Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:**

Waking up, he already plans his next move….and reflects on where he went wrong.

**Author's note:**

Mention of Ozai/OC.

Het.

Contains flashbacks that start long before the beginning of the series.

Sequel to the previous chapters, but it can also be read as a stand-alone.

It's also a REALLY long chapter.

**Warnings:**

Bits of light torture, violence, swearing, NC-17.

Also:

Long interior monologues, flashbacks and a brief look at Fire Nation History (explaining e.g. why the FIRE NATION, of all the people, have the largest navy and (apparently) also the most skills as sea-farers)

Sorry for the only minimal amount of action, but before I get to the really unpleasant bits, I had to set the stage first. Especially concerning Ozai's current attitude.

**Author's note: **

He's still half-way unconscious through this one. His thoughts are still a bit scattered and rambling.

_Anything in cursive script _is a thought that's especially clear.

Anything in (...XYZ... ) is a thought / feeling that he's not really aware of.

**SPECIAL THANKS**

Special thanks go to my beloved Sunshader, who allowed me to bounce ideas off him, although he normally hates this type of story. He also did the dishes, the washing and lots of other stuff so I could write a bit. *HUGS*

Another special thanks goes to ArrayePL, who had to wait an awfully long time for this chapter (AGAIN!) and who was of invaluable assistance by beta-reading the rough draft and asking lots of questions.

Thank you both for your feedback and your patience!

* * *

Everything is numb and cold…

…..as if he were drifting in a sea of ice…under a starless sky….

…floating aimlessly here and there…..like a ship manned by a dead and dying crew.

He can't feel his body.

He can't feel the flow of his breathing.

He can't remember anything…can't remember who he is or why he's there….

A soft voice's whispering….in the back of his mind….telling him that no, he doesn't WANT to remember.

All he has to do is to let himself slip deeper into the darkness beneath, into the welcoming arms of the shadows that will gently wrap him into a veil of eternal forgetfulness.

Like a small, barely still aglow ember that falls into a box of tinder, a slow-burning ache blossoms somewhere in what _might_ be his shoulders….the unexpected promise of a violent fire…_soon_.

His first coherent thought in who-knows how long flares up….a newly ignited flame, burning brightly in the dark:

_"Something's wrong."_

A lifetime of fighting has woven deep paths into his heart and mind; paths he can navigate half-conscious, half-dead, needing neither thought nor memory to do so. It has saved his life more than once.

As a soldier, he has taken bad hits during battle more than once. Hits that left him dizzy, his thoughts fuzzy and scattered all over the place. And yet he kept on fighting, fighting his enemy as well as his own body which threatened to give out on him.

More than once, when he was still a general in his father's army, he was woken in his cot by the sounds of battle erupting somewhere close, his war-camp under attack. Within seconds, still almost asleep, he would be up and running to join the fight, most of the time not even bothering to put on his armour or grab a weapon. His speed and strength, combined with his deadly skill at firebending were weapon and armour enough.

On one occasion, it was an unfamiliar rustling sound that woke him while he was napping in the palace garden and he escaped the assassins' blade by no more than the breadth of a hair.

Even if he knows nothing else, remembers nothing else…..he KNOWS that if something is wrong, he HAS to wake up.

_Fast. _

_Ready to fight. _

…

…

…

…..It isn't as easy as it should be.

His thoughts move….at the ponderously slow pace of a sloth-snail. He tries to think, tries to remember something…anything….and it feels like he's trying to steer a raft that has no sails and but a single oar.

His entire body feels wooden at best….ephemeral like mist at worst.

He strains to hear something, to feel, smell or even taste something, but everything is muffled, dulled, as if he were wrapped in thick layers of raw wool. He can't open his eyes.

The only thing that seems increasingly solid and real is the dull pain that radiates out from somewhere in his upper body (_his shoulders, he's fairly certain of that by now_) lapping its' way up into his…._arms_.

He tries to move, but his body responds only sluggishly to his command; movements slow and jerky…as if he was trying to move through molasses.

After several unsuccessful tries, finally a small victory; he regains awareness and control over what's most important: breathing.

At first, it's no more than a deep and shuddering intake of air, rushing into his lungs, all damp and musty.

He coughs.

_Throat's rough. _

The air carries an unpleasant odour with it and it's chilly, he can tell that much; _a chill which seems to leech all warmth from him_. Ignoring both, he takes another breath, steadier this time.

Out of habit, as he breathes, he reaches for the Chi within himself.

Chi….Breath….they should flow as one, following the rhythm of his will as he directs them.

This is the way it always has been.

_His Breath…_

_His Chi…._

…_.igniting into Fire…..incandescent and wild…..at his command….subject to his will…._

He reaches out, lightly touching the centre of his being, ready to immerse himself fully in the power harboured there, and for a second, _he can feel a spark of his Chi igniting, ready to race through every cell of his body, ready to fill him with a blinding white energy that tastes of lightning and he laughs in silent delight_.

…

The spark fizzles and dies, slipping through his fingers like water, away from his control.

_His screams of rage and denial come out as little rasping sounds, barely audible to his own ears._

…

With time, he falls silent again.

Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches, trepidation sitting in his gut like a millstone, he reaches for his Chi once more.

It is _a tangled, sluggish mess_ that stirs with his breath, but doesn't flow.

Despite this, he would keep trying to gain control, would try to wake the flames that would purify it, gently stoke them until the Fire burned strongly once more…..

….if it weren't for the memories flooding back, telling him he has tried this before, endlessly, relentlessly, _only to fail again and again and again_.

The leaden weight that sits in the centre of his chest, where the shining bright source of his Fire should be_…..it's been there for months, suffocating him, stifling him, smothering him_.

He remembers…..

_The glorious high as the Fire of the Comet calls to his own…_

_The nauseating ache as the Avatar reaches within him and TWISTS something…._

_His hollow amusement as his son demands to know where his mother is…._

_The dull boredom as he stares at the wall of his prison cell, day in, day out…._

_The prickling throb throughout his body as the poison takes hold of his breath, his heart, his thoughts, slowing all of them to an almost stand-still…._

_His deal with Nishima. _

Obviously, things did not go the way they had agreed on.

If they had, _he'd be waking up in a comfy bed right now. _

He'd be feeling the cool glide of silk sheets on his skin.

The air he'd be breathing would be sweet and fresh, scented with flowers. Not stale, cold and…

…_he sniffs carefully_…

….carrying a nausea inducing hint of dried blood and things rotting in the dark.

It seems that Nishima has managed to betray him….assuming, of course he still IS in the hands of Nishima. ….There's no telling what kind of complications might have occurred while he was "asleep".

In all likelihood though, Nishima's the culprit…..Either way, he's bound to find out soon.

He knew something like this could happen; he's seen too many battle plans fall apart when circumstances changed suddenly and unexpectedly, and he has learned to adapt quickly to such changes.

As a commanding officer fighting in the war, he'd sent out a squad of his soldiers for a sneak attack on the flanks of an Earth Kingdom platoon, which his own platoon had been facing on the battlefield. While his squad had been sneaking up on the Earth Kingdom soldiers, they had run afoul of a boarcupine in the woods. The sneak attack that would have ended the battle then and there never happened.

Certainly, he'd planned for several contingencies, but he'd been too young and too inexperienced to anticipate such an out-of-the-blue event. Despite this, he'd come up with a completely new strategy within moments and had ultimately led his troops to victory.

The losses his platoon had suffered had been heavier than he would have liked though. He'd been furious at himself for failing his troops and from then on, he spent almost every free minute of his time studying the strategy of other military leaders, quizzing his superiors about their own battle experiences and re-reading the reports of battles long past.

His friends had jested that he'd become boring company indeed, especially Shuzo, and _their ignorance had disgusted him_. They'd entered the army far later than him and none of them had made if farther than sergeant yet, while he, at eighteen, had already attained the rank of first lieutenant. None of them carried as much responsibility as he did. _None of them had known the terrible price for failure._

A few years later, there'd been a captain under his command who had passed information to the enemy, because the man had fallen in love with a peasant woman from the Earth Kingdom. Because of this, enemy saboteurs had managed to hide on several ships of his flotilla and had sunk them, right at the beginning of a vicious encounter with a battle fleet from the Earth Kingdom that had them outnumbered anyway.

Instantly, he had given the order to switch to one of his secondary battle-plans, one that contained a clever little ruse which had ended up saving their asses and winning them the fight…but almost a full battalion of his men, three-hundred and eighty-six of his soldiers, had drowned when treachery had sunk those ships.

_It had been one of the many occasions that had shown him that his father was a wise man indeed. "Love" was a dangerous flaw. It turned people weak; made them betray their duty and their own people. _

The bastard whose disloyalty had killed so many of his comrades had been punished appropriately. The Captain and his lover had fled, but he'd sent his men out to capture them. They had delivered the pair to his camp in poor condition indeed, having taken their own bit of revenge for their crew-mates deaths. He couldn't fault his men for that. Still, it had almost been a mercy when he had the earth-bitch strangled right in front of the miserable traitors' eyes, right before he'd executed the man himself.

As if coping with the general risk of failure attached to any plan wasn't enough, this time round, when he had started planning for the contingency of a defeat, Nishima had unfortunately been the one with the best contacts and the most people in place to make an escape after imprisonment possible. In the end, besides setting up a few other schemes that also stood a chance of succeeding, he had struck a deal with the little viper-rat.

_Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have trusted Nishima with as much as his nail-clippings._

Granted, if they had won the war, Nishima would have been a useful tool to have around. However, under those circumstances, Nishima would have easy to control…and also much easier to put to death if he stepped out of line.

He'd known though, that if Nishima ever found as much as sand-corn sized hole in his defences, things would get more interesting than would be to his liking…..So before entering this particular bargain he had taken precautions which, under any other circumstances, would have been ridiculously extensive.

After all, he'd had to make allowances for the fact that Nishima would find ways to counteract some of them; and in the unlikely case of his defeat, the resulting upheaval would wreck a few more.

He'd set about to exploit every weakness in Nishima he could find. The lure of the treasures and power alone, which Nishima would gain if he supported his liege-lord, should have been sufficient. But if Nishima didn't stay true to his word, there had also been threats in place, with the consequences ranging from truly dire to agonizing and fatal.

Despite all this, he'd been aware that this fall-back plan was uncertain and highly dangerous. When the gates of Yun-Mah prison had thundered shut behind him, he had been ready to spit nails once he realized he would have to go through with it.

_Going by the way his arms and back are starting to cramp right now, all his careful, well-concealed preparations haven't been enough._

_Fuck._

_Nishima either has gotten very lucky while trying to outfox him, or he's suicidal._

His fall-back plan accomplishing far less than it should have does not come as a surprise, but still the knowledge grates immensely on his temper. If his entire navy had gutted itself on a reef that everybody had known was there, he couldn't have been more incensed.

How many precautions and safeguards did one have to put into place, so that a common criminal would find cooperation more beneficial to his health and his purse than betrayal?

Angrily he breathes out, hard, once, his breath rushing over his lips like the first herald of a summer storm.

Not so long ago, he could have set the air ablaze with that one breath, burning away all impurities, cleansing the atmosphere with his fire.

_He can't now. All he gets is a slightly warm puff that quickly dissipates in the frigid air._

Another reminder that things are not what they are supposed to be; the knowledge itching and _aching like a thorn stuck under his skin, festering._

But no matter what, any action taken, regardless of the risk involved, _was better than docilely rotting away in a prison cell, while his Nation was brought low by that foolish old man and the naïve stupidity of Ursa's whelp._

Sometimes, the guards had whispered news about the ongoings outside to each other, their attempt at discretion clumsy and inept in the light of his dangerously sharp hearing.

Sometimes they had taunted him outright with the exploits of his son and his cronies.

Either way, _what he had heard had sickened him to the core. His nation was losing everything they had fought so long and so hard for to achieve._

Once, in centuries past, the Fire Nation had been the least of the four Nations.

Beset by storms and earthquakes, confined to a series of small islands where the rocky soil was barely arable, their people had been poor and of humble means. _And what little they had, others, like Chin the Conqueror, had tried to take away. _

Famines had been fairly frequent then, killing off the weak and vulnerable, and many a mother had been forced to decide whether to feed her newborn or her toddler, and watch the other one starve slowly to death, because there was not enough food to keep both of her children alive.

_He'd been ten, secretly scourging through the Palace's library for one of the art-books that his father called a frivolous waste of time, when he came across a small scroll, the paper yellowed and crumbling beneath his fingers._

_At first, he'd thought it was one of those boring texts on medicine. It stopped his breath when he realized that the scroll contained advice on how to ease the passing of children that, for the sake of the survival of the rest of the family, had been condemned to die. Herbs to make them sleepy and water to quench at least their thirst. _

In that long-ago past, raids on their towns and homesteads had also been frequent. Marauders from other Nations had thought them easy pickings, had thought them a foundering people, here today, gone tomorrow.

_In the ruins of villages long since abandoned, one could find faded inscriptions hammered into stone, that spoke of his people's losses. And yet, not far off from the remains of those early fishing villages, overgrown by moss and shrubs, these days one would find thriving cities, solid roads, factories._

The early centuries of his Nation's existence had seen most of their people dying young, falling in battle, dying from sickness and hunger or toiling until their bent and battered bodies gave out on them.

And if a family managed to gain a little economic safety, only too often they lost their hard-earned gains when the earth bucked and lurched and houses crumbled or when waves higher than trees rolled in from the coast, sweeping whole villages away.

At times like those, merchants from the other nations had swarmed their ports like vulture-wasps, fattening their purses by selling them the goods they desperately needed to subsist, often on credit, at usurious prices and interest rates that beggared them.

_There were still ledgers from that time left in their archives, and he remembers shaking with rage when he had realized that frequently women; women who where wives, mothers, sisters; had sold themselves into some brothel in the Earth Kingdom to pay their families' debts. _

Unlike Azula, Zuko, who now ruled the Fire Nation, had never grasped the importance of the Fire Nation's past, had never understood how it had shaped them, tempered them in the fires of hardship and strife.

_There'd been teacher complaining to him that, as a young boy, Zuko would fall asleep during lectures, especially the ones about history. The insolent little brat had claimed the teacher was a stuffy old prat and that the lessons were "boring"._

Was Zuko aware that dealing with foreign merchants, crooked and otherwise, had made the people of the Fire Nation cunning in the ways of trade and commerce?

Given that Zuko's preferred approach to negotiation was one of openness and honesty, _how could that misbegotten idiot comprehend the usefulness of shaded half-truths, bribes and blackmail? Under the imposter's rule, his people were going to be swindled blind by the other Nations._

_That the ignorant little shit was squatting on the Dragon Throne right now was an utter disgrace. _

Even with his short stint as a fugitive, the boy knew nothing about the day to day misery of fighting to survive, didn't know the gnawing, stomach-turning bite of starvation which would drive a man to desperate acts…..and which had driven the people of the Fire Nation to brave churning seas and sea-monsters in boats that were mere nutshells, until desperate farmers had become the most competent and successful of fishermen.

Time and the continuous necessity to fight off marauders from across the sea had seen to it that some of those fishermen had honed their skills until they were fierce fighters as well as the best sailors to ever navigate the oceans.

They'd started to build a naval force. Coracles for fishing had been replaced with skiffs swift as the wind that hounded enemy pinnaces, like lionsharks would hound an elephant-whale. Over the decades and centuries, skiffs had been replaced by schooners, which in turn were replaced by clippers. By the time Sozin's grandfather ascended to the throne, their people had built a large navy, which hunted and sank the ships of ANY intruders that dared to venture in their waters.

The pampered wealth in which Zuko had grown up?…It had been a recent thing indeed. For most part of Fire Nation history, the best financial and economic status his people had ever achieved had been one of modest affluence.

Backed by their navy though, Sozin's grandfather had decreed that any vessel passing through their seas had to pay a tariff. _Earth Kindgom and Watertribes had huffed and hawed and cried piracy, but they had paid._ After all, the fastest and safest route either from the Western Earth Kingdoms to the Eastern Earth Kingdoms or from the Northern to the Southern Pole passed through the Fire Nations' waters', and they had become so strong, not even the Water Tribes had dared to tangle with their naval forces.

_They had prospered. _

By the time Sozin ruled, their nation had entered an unprecedented time of peace and wealth…..and Sozin had been determined to keep it that way.

_The circumstances at that time had made it an ideal moment for their Nation to carve a path for themselves in the world. _

The star of the other nations, with their cosseted nobles and petty merchants, their complacent and ignorant farmers and their quixotic scholars and out-of-touch priests was waning.

The Earth Kingdom was glutted by its' long-standing prosperity, its' inhabitants grown decadent and slothful.

The Air Nomads, sustained by their bountiful agriculture, had removed themselves from the cruel reality of life and concentrated their efforts on esoteric nonsense that benefited nobody.

The Watertribes, constrained by their numerous superstitions and empty rituals, were suspended in time, little better than savages, with no drive to change the world.

_The Firenation would drag them all into a new Golden Age, where people earned their keep by accomplishing tasks that were worthwhile and which served the greater good. An age where ambition, determination and vigour would be rewarded and not stymied by out-dated traditions and the small-minded pettiness of others._

_Those who opposed them they would eliminate. _

_Those who yielded to them and who were worthy they would make their own. _

_Only the best were worthy to shape the world in their image, were worthy to rule. And if the other Nations were not tenacious enough to meet their challenge and to hold on to what they had, then they didn't deserve it. _

_Sozin, Azulon, he himself…. they had challenged the world; had thrown themselves into the fight for their Nation's future with wild abandon._

And his people had reaped the reward for their tenacity.

They had advanced science, education and industry, bringing them ahead of all others.

They built the fastest and largest ships, the longest bridges, the most powerful war machines. They had beaten mighty opponents that outnumbered them by far. _They had come to dominate the skies._

The territories they conquered held rich, fertile land and coal and steel deep within the earth, filling their storehouses, so _their people would never want for food or anything else ever again_.

They'd been close to victory.

_So close._

_So close to winning it all._

_So close to fulfilling their destiny. _

Once Sozins' comet disappeared beyond the horizon, it should have been pride that filled him and elation at his success, but what should have been his most glorious achievement had turned into nothing but acrid regret, filling up his thoughts like cobwebs would an attic, sticky and dirty and impossible to brush off.

In the last minute, he and his people had been brutally robbed of their ultimate victory, _stabbed in the back by faithless traitors_ that were no longer worthy to be called their own.

_After his defeat at the hands of the Avatar, he had been forced to watch the work of centuries crumble apart, while he was confined to Yun-Mah prison, languishing powerlessly in his cell. _

He does not blame himself for losing that particular fight. Not much. No.

Sozin as well as Azulon had known that if the Avatar resurfaced, he could become powerful enough to put their plans into jeopardy. Sozin hadn't managed to withstand the Avatar either, when the Avatar had been Roku.

_He's run the fight through his head hundreds of times. _

But no matter how he kept changing the details, the variables, played through different sets of tactics….once the young monk had attained his Avatar state, even with his own bending amplified by the comet, _he'd been next to powerless against the boy_.

There have been moments in his life where his options had been few. Often, all of those options had been bad ones in one way or another too. He's never been so helpless before though….never had to run like a rabiroo desperately trying to evade a relentless hunter.

Yes…..he had fought until the very end, dredged up every ounce of his power and his skill and thrown it at his opponent, never giving up.

And yet, he'd lost.

He has never lost a battle like this before.

Not so completely.

_Not so bitterly._

And now, the delusions of grandeur of a dim-witted fool_, who was no longer his son, _and the ramblings of a mentally unbalanced renegade_, who had ceased to be a brother to him years ago, _were driving his proud Nation into ruin.

_Their army was being downsized, if not outright disbanded, leaving their bellies bared to the enemy. _

The usurper on the Dragon Throne was liberally sharing the Firenations' knowledge with others and _the advantage generations of his people had fought and died for melted away like butter in the sun._

What wealth they had accumulated was being spent in on reparation payments, _plunging his people into poverty once more._

While he was stuck at Yun-Mah, the knowledge that, for the time being, he was powerless to stop the new "Firelord" or his cronies had had him pacing his cell like a caged tiger or staring morosely at the bars of his cell for hours.

Just to dull the edge of his frustration a tiny bit, he would have loved to break a neck or two, snuff out the lives of a few traitors. The opportunity certainly had presented itself a few times during those long months…but then, his jailers would have increased security, which would have hampered his escape later on. So he had confined himself to snapping and snarling….and biding his time.

_He wasn't dead yet._

_And as long as he lived, there was still a chance, however small, that he could still turn the whole war around. _

_But as long as he stayed incarcerated at Yun-Mah prison, he could do NOTHING._

He'd checked, double- and triple-checked his options. Soon it had become clear that any plans he'd made that didn't involve Nishima had fallen through. He'd tried to come up with other plans, other options…_but Nishima had been his only way out._

Grudgingly, he refrained from thinking too much about what he'd do if the filthy little thug betrayed him. He'd had his spies gather as much information about the man and his organization beforehand and had anticipated the circumstances he might face and the options he might have to the furthest extend possible before entering into his little arrangement with that sorry piece of waste. If it came to betrayal, he would have to come up with a course of actions based on the situation he found himself in as well as a as the information he had. Overthinking things now, when there was no new information, would only drive him crazy.

The time he had spent waiting for one of the rigged bowls to pass into his had been arduous, the seconds ticking by like small eternities, but the gossip from the guards and whatever interesting tidbits he gleaned from his all too rare visitors certainly furnished him with much food for thought.

It allowed him to keep himself entertained by planning different strategies for getting back into the game, trying to anticipate what the espionage intelligence might say, devising different kinds of troop movements and tactics that could be useful in retaking the Fire Nation and then the World with those of his subjects that remained loyal to their Nation and their ideals.

_It calmed him, looking forward to entering the battle-field once more; re-taking what belonged to him and his people. _

He had actually started to look forward to a soft bed too, with servants waiting to do his bidding and a long hot bath or two. _At the prison,_ _making do with the bucket of cold water and the old rag full of holes that were all he had to perform his daily ablutions with has been less than satisfying._

_If Nishima hadn't managed to double-cross him, at this moment, he'd be getting ready to meet the generals that remained loyal to him. There would be an aide, reading him reports on the enemies' strength and their own current capacities._

He might have been still a little sore, a little light-headed from the poison he took to fake his death, but that would be the utmost of his discomfort.

Instead, there is a throbbing twinge in his arms, shoulders and…yes, _also in his back. _

_Damn. _

He still can't feel all of his body, his senses are still muddled, but going by the strain being put on his upper body, he'd hazard a guess that he's been tied up somehow, probably for quite a while, hanging from his arms.

_Well, shit._

Under his breath, he keeps on cursing for a good long while, until he's vented most of his frustration.

_It's strange with how many long-forgotten expletives one can come up with when strung up like a cow hippo for slaughter._

_.  
_

(...There are Water-Tribe curses mixed in with those from the Fire Nation. A lot of them are related to rotting fish and leaking canoes. He picked them up listening to her. Mostly she'd been cursing him at the time...)

.

For all that he's imprisoned once more, the ugly predicament he finds himself in has advantages too.

_He had escaped Yun-Mah prison._

_His allies are still out there, somewhere. _

_And as he had anticipated, Nishima has kept him alive_.

_Still….he'd hoped things would go better than THIS. _

Nishima's as insatiable in his greed as he had estimated he would be, and since he's not dead yet, the crime-lord obviously wants something from him, something that Nishima couldn't get from anybody else_…which means he still has some leverage._

_He's fairly certain that he knows exactly what Nishima will demand from him._

The Fire Nations' treasury for one, which he split up and hid in several locations before starting what should have been their final and victorious attack on the Earth Kingdom.

Furthermore, he has a wealth of information memorized on almost everybody who is of any consequence within the Fire Nation and the Colonies. There are even some important people in the Earth Kingdom which he could either blackmail or at least heavily influence, due to the information that time and the hard work of his spies have played into his hands.

Third, Nishima would love to gain the support of the Fire Nation loyalists, something they would never give to Nishima on their own.

More importantly though, Nishima will be anxious to keep the loyalists of his back. His allies and troops weren't aware of the full extent of Nishima's criminal dealings…but all of them knew he was a shady character. And they also knew that if something went wrong with their Lord's liberation, Nishima was to blame. They'd track down and kill Nishima because of this; just like a pack of armadillo wolves hunting a baby penguin-otter.

_He knows that General Shinu and the Yu Yan Archers have gone underground in Ba Sing Se. They'd been the knotweed tile up his sleeve, in case the inhabitants of Ba Sing Se tried anything stupid during the Fire Nation's Final Strike against the remaining rebellious territories in the Earth Kingdom. Confronted with more than just the citizens of Ba Sing Se during the fight, they'd made the wise choice of staying out of sight. Zuko's little minions hadn't been able to apprehend Admiral Liang either._

_Nishima, being the covetous bastard he is, will try to get what he wants without having to bargain for it though. _

Nishima has a penchant for cruelty, and going by what he has woken up to, Nishima has no plans to play nice anymore.

_Torture, only a remote possibility before, has become an unpleasant likelihood._

_The key to his survival will be not to give in._

It's not a prospect that he's looking forward to.

_No sense lamenting over spilled tea though. _

If he wants to regain command of the situation, then he'd better start working on that, right now.

The first thing he needs to gain control of is his body.

Once he's done that, he needs to find out where he has been taken to and how he can escape.

Once he has escaped, he'll go on to locate those that have remained devoted to him and to their cause. They will rally their forces and take down the Avatar and his allies.

_One thing at the time. _

He takes a deep breath, mouth closed, nostrils flaring, air flowing in and out in a steady, strong stream.

The burn in his shoulders is easiest to focus on, so that's where he starts.

He concentrates on it, feeling out _each little twinge, each little bruise in muscle and bone. _

The aching sensation flares into a searing, rending agony that _radiates into his arms, his neck, his back_ and he has to clench his teeth hard to keep himself from crying out.

_His back-muscles are cramping up, sending bitingly sharp twinges and tingles as far as his thighs and his calves. _

Compared to the reward of the returning awareness of his body, it is a minor annoyance.

Briefly, when the pain is at its' worst, his breath hitches, becomes irregular, only smoothing out again as he manages to bring his abused body under control. He must be in worse shape than he thought. _It's been a while since he's shown that much of a reaction to a strain like this._

_.  
_

(...Her hands had always been so soft and warm, easing the ache in tense muscles, and when long nights poring over bill proposals, tax records, inventory lists and troop evaluations had made his head pound, she'd gently stroked his hair until the throbbing agony behind his eyes had disappeared...)

.

Like a tide reclaiming the shore, he lets his breath flow through his body, repossessing it inch by inch, wave by wave.

Movement.

He lightly tenses and relaxes his muscles until he's certain that they're obeying his will once more. They're not yet as strong or as responsive as they should be, but going by the extent of movement he has regained in so short a time, _that's a problem which should resolve itself once the drug wears off completely_.

Sense of touch and taste.

The easiest sensation to identify, though the most unpleasant to acknowledge, is the bite of steel manacles around his wrists. They cut into his flesh and _he can tell that there'll be bone-deep bruises underneath._

His arms have been spread wide. His legs are dangling almost freely above the ground, with only the tip of his instep dragging on the floor beneath. Yes, as he thought, they have tied him up in midair. Going by the hot mess his shoulders, arms and back are in, he has been hanging here for quite a while. Half a day maybe.….not a good thing.

_At least his shoulder joints haven't dislocated yet._

The musty, rotten air leaves a salty tang on his tongue and there's a cold dampness that has settled on his skin and which is starting to seep into his very bones. He shivers.

_The space they've put him in is either a large underground hall or a cave and it must be near the sea._

Hearing.

The vague, muffled drone and the slight buzzing in his ears resolve themselves into distinct sounds and noises. He can hear the dripping of water. The discreet rustling of clothes and the breathing of what must be several dozen people, about 60 feet away. They're spread out in a half-circle….not talking, hardly moving, making as little sound as possible. Seems like he has an audience.

_Interesting_.

Sight.

His eyes are as heavy and about as moveable as the gates of one of his fortresses, but he forces them open. He is greeted by pitch black darkness. The room is darker than the insides of a coal-mine.

_No lighting at all? Heh. Looks like this particular play is not quite ready to start yet. Good._

He gingerly moves his feet bit by bit. It wouldn't do to move too swiftly and send his chains clinking, alerting the others of just how awake and aware he has become.

In what seems like hours later, he's in a position to put some weight on his feet, taking most of the burden from his shoulders, but the floor is just a few critical inches too far away to stand on anything but the tips of his toes. It's hard to find a position that will keep him stable and standing for some time.

He recalls having left his pleasure slave in a similar position for an entire afternoon. When he had returned to his quarters in the early evening, she had been barely coherent, covered in sweat, muscles spasming and every bit of movement had sent her into tears. He'll last a lot longer than she did, but ultimately he knows he'll fare not much better.

_A small bit of suffering, meant to soften him up for things to come._

The floor is smooth, icy and wet. His feet have walked on the cold metal of a Firenation Navy ship deck often enough to tell that the tiles beneath him are made of steel.

_A strange choice for a floor that, going by the lack of swaying movement, is not part of a ship. _

The chill from the floor creeps up his legs and he fights hard to suppress the renewed shivers that run up and down his body.

_Agni, he HATES the cold._

After a few tries, he finds an almost solid stance and he can relax his aching shoulders a bit more, but the relief is soured knowledge that even by shifting his weight around, alternately letting his toes or his arms bear his weight, tensing and relaxing his muscles, he will be exhausted by this exercise in three or four days. Especially in the weakened state he's in.

In the end, he'll sag back in his chains whether he wants to or not.

_This was going to get very nasty._

It looked like he would have the opportunity to find out if, despite his defeat at the hands of the Avatar, he was still strong enough to be worthy of ruling the world.

_Did Nishima think him soft and unprepared?_

Inwardly, he sneers.

If he hadn't been sure that he could take anything Nishima would throw at him, including torture, he wouldn't have risked such a dangerous deal.

_He has known suffering and hardship before. _

There's no soldier who has been to the front who hasn't.

He'd been only twelve when his father sent him on his first assignment, young for anybody else, but the customary age for princes to enter the army. Like any soldier, he'd gone for days without sleep, spent long nights standing guard while drenched by sleet and pummelled by hail, had hunger raging in his belly like a rabid rat-dog like.

The one time where their supply-train had been ambushed and they had to go with the smallest of rations for a month, _much of which was rotted and foul-tasting, had been even worse than going entirely without food. _

He'd matured into a man on the battle front, and which each challenge to his endurance and strength, he realize more and more that, even for a firebender, he was more resilient than anybody else, save maybe Iroh.

Fire Nation soldiers stationed at the front were tougher than old leather, but he had accomplished feats none of them could.

At fourteen, after a skirmish with a bunch of Southern Watertribe scouts, he had been the last man standing of his squad; so even though his jaw and his arm had been broken, he had tracked down the last surviving member of the Watertribe's scouting party through a snowstorm which had lasted 3 days and had silenced the man. Thanks to that, a carefully planned Firenation raid a week later had proceeded successfully, without a hitch.

At fifteen, burning up with a fever, which he'd caught while his regiment had passed through a swamp, he had been ordered to go on a dangerous solo scouting mission that took him across jagged mountains tops and through marshy bogs. With the fever, stomach cramps had come which had felt like they were tearing him apart. His joints had swollen and each movement had hurt as if someone was jabbing needles into them. His head had been throbbing the entire time, as if someone was trying to crack it open with a hammer. The scouting mission had taken five weeks. His illness had lasted four. And despite this, all by himself, he'd brought back the crucial bit of information they had needed to bring yet another territory under their control, this one with several valuable coal mines.

At twenty-three, he had duelled an Earth Kingdom General and defeated him. The General had challenged him to win without using his Firebending and, just to show he could, he had accepted that challenge. _During the duel, he'd taken a blunt hit with a rock which, as he later found out, had busted one of his kidneys._ The agony had been excruciating and he almost hadn't survived his injuries. _Pissing blood for weeks afterwards hadn't been fun either._

When he had ascended to the Dragon Throne, thanks to the unusual circumstances, he had to spend many hours of the first two years of his reign _fighting one vicious challenge after the other in order to prove that he was powerful enough to be worthy of the crown. He'd had his ribs and several bones broken, skin scorched, muscles torn and joints dislocated, but he hadn't been beaten even once. He wouldn't have been worthy of the Dragon Throne otherwise. _

Will he be able to withstand torture forever? No.

Will he be able to withstand the Nishimas henchmen if a large number of them attacked him at the same time? In the weakened state he is in? No.

He'll kill and maim a few, but in the end, _the odds are stacked against him so badly that even he is bound to lose._

It doesn't matter.

The people of the Fire Nation have bent under pressure in the past…but they have never broken.

_If he holds out long enough, he WILL find a flaw in Nishima's plans, and he WILL escape._

Until then though, Nishima will make him suffer.

_Soot, ashes and burning rat-shit. _

_He COULD have avoided landing in this puking, piss-potting, roach-infested slimehole…if only he had had the wisdom to kill his son and his brother at the first hints that their loyalty and devotion to the Firenation were questionable._

Putrefying corpses wouldn't have been able to help the Avatar and his friends. Without Iroh's and Zuko's interference, he would have won the war and killed the Avatar.

_But he had waited too long. He had hesitated. Why?Why had he been so….so STUPID?_

He'd been taught that any threat to the welfare and the future of the Fire Nation had to be eliminated.

Without delay. Without qualms.

_The signs that both his son and his brother had flaws and vices that made them a danger to the Fire Nation had been there. And yet, he had held back, making excuses for them, unwilling to believe that they would truly betray their homeland._

When Iroh had abandoned his troops after Lu Ten's death, without permission from their father, their commanding officer, hadn't that already been the kind of dereliction of duty that other military commanders had been executed for?

But they'd made an exception for Iroh, the Dragon of the West…simply because he HAD returned, had thrown himself on his Lord's mercy…and because, even broken of heart and only slightly less so of mind, he'd been a hero to his people.

The older brother that he had admired had changed though, a change that had been sickening to watch. Iroh had always been more easy-going than was good for him. Now, his brother showed a softness that MIGHT have been pardonable in a member of the lower classes or, _he scoffed at the very thought, a server of tea. _

The younger Iroh he had known loved getting into fights.

Older Iroh broke up fights between hot-headed young nobles while lecturing them about peace and harmony.

As a young man, Iroh barely remembered the name of his personal valet.

Older Iroh could talk in depth to a young servant passing by about the health of that servants' grandmother, showing concern for a person of no consequence at all.

In his youth, Iroh had conquered a heavily resistant fiefdom in the Earth Kingdom by burning down their entire harvest, just as it ripened in the fields. He had not cared that many would suffer hunger and even die in the coming winter; had even thought the strain it would put on the Earth Kingdom's resources to help the starving populace there advantageous to the Fire Nations' cause. He'd called starvation a good way to hollow out morale.

The older, broken Iroh had proposed a cease-fire in an embattled region to let through a convoy from the Earth Kindgom which, in the middle of a winter, would have supplied refugees with blankets and sacks of rice, claiming that generosity on the Fire Nation's side would make it easier for the people to accept their rule once they had been fully subjugated…but it hadn't been difficult to tell that above all, Iroh had wanted to help the refugees.

Soft-heartedly indulging in compassion …it was a truly unforgivable character flaw in a member of the royal family. He should have seen that softness for the warning sign it was and killed Iroh.

_At the very latest, when Iroh had betrayed them all for good at Ba Sing Se. _

But on seeing the wreck his older brother had become, he had been only too willing to believe that Zuko turning against his Uncle and slaying the Avatar had shattered his brother's spirit beyond repair and the old man's mind with it.

The thought that somewhere within his madness, Iroh realized that his attempt at weakening the Firenation with all his rambling about "peace" and "harmony" had failed had filled him with grim satisfaction. Death would have been too light a punishment for the old fool.

_As for Zuko…_

He should have killed his son without hesitation when his Lord and Father, Azulon had demanded it of him. He should have obeyed his Lord.

He remembered the conversation well, remembered his words….remembered kneeling in front of the throne of his father, in the light of the flickering light of the flames. Remembered offering to fulfill the duties of an heir, when Iroh had so obviously failed at the task. After the way Fire Lord Azulon had raged at the news of Iroh abandoning the siege of Ba Sing Se, after the way he had implied that his current heir was weak and worthless, to leave the death of his son unavenged, it had seemed to be the right thing to do.

His mouth had been dry as the desert when he'd made his request.

_"Father, revoke Iroh's birth right. I am your humble servant, here to serve you and our nation. Use me."_

The Firelords' response hadn't been what he had expected.

His father had snarled and shouted, furious at him.

"You dare suggest I betray Iroh? My first born! Directly after the demise of his only beloved son! I think Iroh has suffered enough, but you... Your punishment has scarcely begun!"

He'd flinched back as if slapped. His skin had flashed between scalding hot and freezing cold as he frantically he tried to figure out where and how he had misjudged his father's intentions so very badly. And what he might say to calm the storm is petition had unleashed..

"Father, I…."

His father's face had pulled into a rictus of disgust, as if he weren't his son, but something that had crawled out of the garbage pile.

"SILENCE! You believe you are fit to rule? You are second-best. You are nothing but an unimportant subordinate who has forgotten his place. You are NOTHING!"

His fathers' fist had hit the mat he was sitting on with a dull thump. A small sound that reverberated through the entire hall.

Confused and frantic, he'd kowtowed so deeply, his forehead had pressed into the ebony floor of the throne room so hard that it hurt.

Unimpressed, spewing words like a raging wildfire spit sparks, his father had ranted on.

"Iroh….Iroh breaks down after loosing his son and you DARE suggest that YOU would not? You, who has always lagged behind Iroh in all things? You dare to suggest disinheriting you brother, and going against all that is right and proper would get me an heir WORTHY of that title? The INSOLENCE! "

Dumbstruck by his father's words, horrified by his father's rage at his petition which he'd thought his father had WANTED him to make, he'd dared to look up.

The malicious, ugly smile had pulled the thin lips of Azulon apart and he'd felt an icy chill run down his back. His father never smiled.

And then the old man had begun to laugh, a high pitched, dissonant sound, interrupted by wheezing; a sound that raised the hair on his neck.

"Hehehehehehe…..heheheh…..the audacity!….The sheer RUTHLESSNESS!"

Still cackling, his father had waved his secretary of state over, who had been wedged unobtrusively into a corner at the end of the hall; the one person witnessing this private audience.

Malevolent glee dancing in his eyes, Firelord Azulon had started dictating to the man, who hurried up to the platform where the Firelord sat and had knelt beside the throne, producing a writing tablet, vellum, ink and brushes.

"I, Firelord Azulon, protector and ruler of the Realm of Fire, order the execution of Prince Zuko, tomorrow at dawn. As executioner, I name Prince Ozai. Should Prince Ozai fail in his duty, have the palace guard string up the boy at the gallows like a common criminal."

He had heard the words his father uttered, but hadn't been able to move as much as a muscle, frozen by disbelief. _This couldn't be actually happening._

_The order didn't make any sense. _

_Only traitors and the very worst criminals were condemned to death, if at all. _

His son was neither the one nor the other.

Yes, the Firelord was not satisfied with his grand-son. Zuko was only average in his bending and didn't show Azula's astute awareness of political manoeuvring, let alone her dexterity at ruthlessly exploiting an opponents' weakness. But even if Zuko was a bit naïve, with a few harsh lessons that life would teach him sometime soon, he was bound to grow up into a strong, fearless soldier, loyal to his nation and worthy of becoming Firelord one day. His son had done NOTHING to deserve death….

…And if his father wanted to punish him for speaking out of turn…there were other severe punishments he could inflict. He could banish him. He could demote him to the status of a private and send him away to scrub decks for the rest of his life. He could disinherit him. But ordering him to kill his firstborn when their house had just recently lost a prince in line of inheritance? And another had proven unfit for the duties of a Firelord?

…_..it made NO SENSE. _

Unperturbed, Firelord Azulon had produced his personal seal and wax from the depth of his robes, melting some of the wax onto the document and pressing the seal onto it, making it all official. He handed the document to his secretary, then waved the man off. The secretary had scurried down the platform and across the hall like a frightened mouse, exiting the throne room through a small side exit at the back.

The whole conversation had taken only mere moments, but to him, it felt like the whole world had just slowed to a crawl and stopped.

As the secretary had scuttled past him, giving him a wide berth, he'd just sat there, rooted to the spot.

His father turned to him and leaned forward. His voice was a mere hiss.

"There. THAT is an adequate punishment for someone who has aspirations beyond his capability. Let us see if you fare any better than your brother…..and IF you do…..then let us see if you can endure losing your wife too…."

_That, if nothing else, had unfrozen him and he had tried to bargain, to argue and even to plead for his son's life. For the safety of his family._

His father had scoffed at his efforts, disgusted that the son who had claimed to be strong enough to rule just minutes ago now proved to be "too sentimental" to act with the ruthlessness required of those that wanted to ascend to the Dragon Throne.

When he the realization sank in that there was nothing he could do to save his son, nothing to divert his Lord from the irrational seeming order, _each breath he took seemed to turn to lye that corroded his lungs until he thought he would die from it._

_There was no way to escape or negate this. It was going to happen just as the Firelord had ordered._

Even challenging his father to an Agni Kai and defeating him wouldn't have changed the validity of an officially signed and sealed order of the ruling Firelord.

Wildly disregarding the obedience and respect he owed his Lord, something he wouldn't even have contemplated in any other circumstances, he threatened to rebel and not to obey, but his "And if I refuse?" was met with a cackle and the dry comment that Azulon did not care who was the one to execute his useless grandson; Ozai or the Palace Guard. And of course refusal would mean that Ozai was not only a coward, but a traitor too and as such, he could go hang right alongside his son. And of course Lady Ursa's life would be forfeit right away too.

At that, incandescent rage and despair had burned in him, hot enough to have scorched Azulon to a cinder in less than a heartbeat. But committing regicide like that would not have saved his son either. He himself….the wife that has been loyal to him not matter what….the son he had been so happy to see born….the daughter that he cherished…. no matter his prowess and skill on the battlefield, he would not have been able to protect them from the full force of the army that would pursue them and see them brought to justice for an act of regicide.

Hours later, Ursa had found him in the library, contemplating the burned out candles….trying to come to terms with the fact that come sunrise, he would end the life of his firstborn at his Lords' order.

Still trying to understand how his Lord could give an order that seemed to make no sense at all.

When Ursa offered him a chance to save his son, even though it would cost him his wife and make him an accomplice in his fathers' murder, _he had been weak-kneed with relief and only too willing to pay for the life of his son with the life of a father who seemed to have lost his mind._

At that time, being able to revoke the order that would have seen his son dead had meant more to him than the fact that he now had gained the throne which he had coveted ever since his father, utterly enraged and disgusted at his elder son's lack of backbone after failing to bring Admiral Jeong Jeong down, had implied that his second son might be better suited to ruling their Nation.

Now and here, hanging by his arms like a side of prime pork, he smiled grimly to himself.

_In retrospect, Firelord Azulon had been wiser and of greater foresight than him._

He should have taken Zuko's life without questioning and without hesitation then and there.

But he had been too attached, too forgiving of his son's failings, telling himself that the boy was still young and would learn, and so it had taken him years to appreciate that his father had been right in demanding Prince Zuko's life.

_Azulon had seen Zuko for what he was, for what he would become. The old Firelord had known that it was necessary to cull the weak from the bloodline before their flaws corrupted the entire breed. _

The signs of Zuko's unfitness had been there all along, but he hadn't wanted to see them.

Instead, he'd been pleased at the dogged, grim determination with which his son pursued the Avatar, not hesitating to make prisoners or threaten people with the full force of his wrath, even challenging Admiral Zhao, a seasoned warrior with considerable fighting prowess.

When Zuko had soundly defeated Zhao in that Agni Kai, pride and satisfaction had filled him, only slightly tempered by the fact that his son hadn't had the guts to mark his opponent as tradition demanded. He had felt sure though, that his son was finally on the right way.

Thinking that maybe all Zuko needed was a more dramatic….incentive…. to finally drop the last vestiges of restraint, he had publicly labelled Zuko a traitor, had set Azula snapping at his heels and had some "Wanted" posters put up. If Zuko was worthy of ascending to the Dragon Throne one day, then he wouldn't be daunted by obstacles that would have been the downfall of lesser men.

And if someone had gotten too enthusiastic about collecting that reward on the Prince's head….well, at that point, he still considered Iroh loyal to the Firenation. Iroh was soft….but not THAT soft. With Iroh by his side, a prince of the Firenation should have been able to handle himself in any situation.

And if he hadn't been?

Well…..if such a bit of strife and trouble was enough to bring Zuko down, then it would be indeed better if he were culled from the line of ascension.

In the end, it had seemed as if his gamble had paid off. Dodging all pursuit, travelling behind enemy lines, infiltrating Ba Sing Se even before Azula, gaining access to the imperial palace, and with a scheme involving tea_….of all the crazy ideas….._ teaming up with Azula as he had, playing on the weaknesses and sentimentalities of the Avatar and his friends… bringing down the Avatar….

He'd been under the impression that exile had done his son a world of good, turning him crafty, honing his skills, making him strong.

He had believed that his son had learned his lesson. Had believed Zuko had come into his heritage.

_He had been pleased. _

When Zuko returned, he had even learned to show proper respect to his betters, not presuming too much about his privileges as a Prince and obediently heeding orders when they were issued.

He would have been more hesitant to re-instate Zuko as his heir if he had known Azula was lying to him.

_An unpleasant situation when he found out. When Zuko had come to "confess". _

Oh yes, his son had gained in skill during his banishment…. but he had wasted whatever potential he might have had to be the true heir to the throne by falling into the same kind of foolish benevolence that had ruined Iroh.

So, maddeningly, he was left with one child that was as much of a traitor as his brother….and a second child he could not trust.

_As a full-blown traitor, Zuko's only remaining worth was to serve as fodder for the vulture-crows._

He should have listened to his father.

He should have obeyed, instantly and without hesitation, and killed Zuko.

Instead, he had helped Ursa murder Azulon.

The irony of it all is not lost upon him.

He might not blame himself for losing against the Avatar.

However, he DOES blame himself for not killing his brother and son when he had the chance.

Now, he will pay the price for that oversight. The price for his hesitation, his temporary weakness.

This setback is his fault and hence it is his responsibility to set things straight again.

More than ever, he will not hesitate to sacrifice all he has to restore his Nation….

_Flesh. _

_Bone. _

_Blood._

For now, it's all he has left to fight with.

_Nishima'd better watch his back. _

_._

_._

_._

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For Haven:

I'm totally and utterly thrilled that you liked the story so much.

I've cried at stories that I've liked too and I know how that feels, so hearing that you cried while reading "Owned by Fire" is an IMMENSE compliment! *blushes*

Knowing that you liked Kian means a lot to me. Writing an OC has a LOT of pitfalls where an author can go wrong, and making her an enjoyable character the reader can empathize with was one of the things I'd hoped I'd manage to pull off.

As for the grammar: yep, I've got some flaws there. I try hard, but I'm not a native speaker, so sometimes grammatical errors kinda sneak up on me. If you have time and would like to point them out in more detail, go ahead. There's still some room for improvement where my English is concerned. ^_^

And yep, writing this story DOES take a lot of time. The rough draft usually gets written rather quickly, but editing the chapter until it flows nicely, there are no errors in consistency and it evokes the kind of atmosphere I want it to evoke….that takes AGES. (Never mind that I've got to keep up with my RL stuff too).

To make up for the wait this time round, this chapter is more than double the length of my usual chapters. ^_~

For Arraye:

I'm insanely happy that even after all these chapters, you still love the characters and the story. Your support and your feed-back mean a lot to me (and they help keeping me sane too when there's an edit that's NOT going the way I want it to at ALL *g*).

And your predictions are quite on the spot: Yes, Karma is going to bite the former Fire Lord in the ass. It's going to make for quite a sore bum!

I can't entirely blame him for landing in Nishimas power like this though. Ozai DID take quite a few precautions and planned this out carefully. It's just that nobody, not even Ozai is omniscient, and Nishima simply got very lucky with a few things….and Ozai didn't.

As for what will happen to Ozai now, I'll say that much: things are going to get very, very, very ugly. I'm not going to pull any of my punches, here, promise.

For Kelsi:

If I ever come across a Ozai/OC story that fits your criteria, I'll post a link for you ^_~


	9. Delivered into Darkness

**Disclaimer:**

Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:**

Fate has taken a turn from bad to worse. Much worse….and yet he fights.

**Author's note:**

Anything in cursive script is a thought that's especially clear.

**SPECIAL THANKS**

Special thanks go to my beloved **Sunshader**, who did the dishes, the washing and lots of other stuff so I could write a bit. *HUGS*

Another special thanks goes to **ArrayePL**, faithful and fun beta-reader, whose questions, as always, have been invaluable. Thank you. Without you, some of the bits that lead depth to this story and make it better understandable would never have made it onto paper. *HUGS*

Thank you both for your help and your patience!

**WARNINGS !**

Things are about to get bad. Really, really bad.

Seriously, I won't be pulling my punches with this one.

But please, bear with me, there's a method to the following madness:

I've always like Ozai, because he has many qualities that are worthy of a stories' hero: he's strong, intelligent, resourceful and competent.

The one thing that makes him a villain though, is that he seriously lacks is compassion….oh, and the ability to acknowledge that any character traits besides strength and ruthlessness are worth anything.

Well, I always figured that the one thing that can teach us compassion towards others is our own suffering (sound's familiar, doesn't it?). So Ozai is going to see a fair share of that in the next chapters.

It won't be pretty. But he won't have to go through it alone either.

**TORTURE, murder, NC-17.**

other warnings: once more, reckless playing with grammatical tenses.

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His "audience" was getting restless.

The barely audible sounds of shuffling, of people trying to get comfortable in positions which were, by their nature, rather uncomfortable, was increasing ever so slightly from one breathing cycle to the next.

They couldn't be army then. At least not Fire Nation army.

HIS soldiers were able to hold their positions for more than a day. It showed off their endurance and discipline during parades and also served them well when scouting out enemy positions. Any soldier who disgraced his unit by fidgeting during a parade or, may the sun never shine on him again, even fainting, was in for months of ribbing by his comrades and at least a month of latrine duty. The penalty for those that betrayed their position by fidgeting on duty was a lot less pleasant than that.

Inwardly he grinned. Considering that the pain he was in was still far removed from being mind-addling, he couldn't have been hanging here more than half a day, and his watchers were already squirming like earthworms left to dry in the sun.

Lack of discipline was a bitch when it came to upholding authority. So nice of his enemies to show cracks in their defences when the game had barely even begun.

He exhaled slowly and carefully and blinked a few times in the darkness. Then, gently, so as not to make the chains holding him clink, he flexed his muscles, one by one. The manacles bit deeply into his wrists, sending a shower of pins and needles racing up his arms and shoulders, but he could feel the tug on bone and skin as his muscles moved exactly they way he wanted them to.

He was ready.

Time to get his first move in while his enemies' jing was still neutral.

He'd have to see if he could unsettle them a bit. A cornered cat would hiss and spit, hackles raised, often scaring off the attacking pack of stray dogs. In the rare cases where he and his units had faced enemies that by far outmatched them in numbers and equipment, the sheer ferocity he and his soldiers had shown had more than once tipped the scales in their favour. Ferocity and a show of strength might help tip the scales in his favour once more.

He chuckled. Quietly at first, but then he let the sound build, made it roll through the cave until it echoed from the walls. His laughter reverberated through the hushed quiet like a sudden rock-slide deep in mountains, shaking the silence asunder until only a few little snickers remained, bouncing through the hall like the last pebbles dropping after a ground-rending avalanche.

His audience definitely didn't like that.

There was a startled shuffling and rustling of clothes and the faint chink of light armour. By the soft, short thumps he heard, he even got a few of them to jump a bit at the sudden sign that their prey was awake, aware and ready. _Nice_.

Going by their jumpiness and the nervous shuffling, his audience was aware that his reputation as a dangerous opponent in any kind of fight was well-earned. Their nervous scuttling reminded him of a pack of hyena-rats: hungry and eager to attack, but at the same time wary and frightened of a prey that still might be able to strike back. He planned on feeding their anxiety until they choked on it.

Frightening your enemy was a two-edged sword. Even a mild-mannered scholar might attack with vicious savagery when backed into a corner hard enough. Given that his captors probably weren't a bunch of meek and humble book-worms, the backlash reaction he got was bound to be nasty.

However, fear also made an enemy prone to errors and easier to goad into rash actions that might play out to his advantage. And since torture was probably in the books anyway, striking fear in the hearts of his audience was not going to incur any major disadvantage.

Now, how best to string them along….

He'd have to get them to let down their guard first.

Scum like these turd-heaps tended to become sloppy and overconfident if they believed they were on the verge of looting a carcass….but he'd have to play it carefully.

If he gave in too fast, too easily, his opponents would smell rat too soon and they would remain cautious of him.

He'd better turn this whole thing into a major pissing contest first, so they'd have to work hard for their first "victory"…and just when they thought they'd won, they might grow careless enough and give him an opening where he could deal them a hard, vicious strike.

Right now, as far as grand-standing went, he was still in the lead, and he'd better start expanding that advantage, before his opponents found their footing again.

He shut his eyes tight, pressing the lids together, hard, and sneered.

"Well, well, well….look who's trying to play with the big boys."

The reaction he got was even better than he had hoped for.

A petulant hiss cut through the darkness and a series of torches placed around the room flared to life, painting the insides of his eyelids in vivid orange and warming his skin. Ahhh…..the heat of fire nearby. A definite improvement.

He relaxed the sneer into a condescending smile and, after a few heartbeats, when he was sure that his eyes had sufficiently adjusted, so he wouldn't blink like a cat-owl caught in broad daylight, he opened his eyes again.

Cave. About 600 feet wide, 100 deep from what he could see. Going by the acoustics, it was probably three times as deep in total. Dark rock, but not the basalt that was common along the coastline of the Fire Nation. Possible that he had been taken outside of the borders of his homeland.

Walls roughly hewn, with large torches set at about 10 feet intervals, of which only the nearest 30 or so were lit. The Ceiling was so far up it go lost in the shadows. A natural cave then, converted to serve a purpose other than housing mould and wolf-bats. To the right was a large gate, 35 feet high and about 20 wide, so it had been built to move large equipment in and out. It was currently open, but could be closed with a portcullis, going by the broad spikes jutting down from the top. No winch or chains for the opening mechanism visible from this side. No lighting within the gate, so he couldn't see where it led. Considering that he could smell the sea, it might be possible that this hall had served as a hangar for ship maintenance equipment or as a warehouse for cargo. If so, then this room was likely to be close to an exit from whatever kind of stronghold this was, and there'd be a harbour and ships near.

The floor of the cave was hewn from the same dark rock as the walls, the sole exception being the metal plates under his feet that extended about four feet to his left, his right, probably behind him too, and another 30 feet in front of him, running right up to the edge of a large wooden dais.

At either of the front corners of the dais stood one of those green-glowing crystal rocks from the earth kingdom. They were about half the height of a man. Rocks of that size were quite costly, but he'd never thought them worth it, given that the light they gave was weak and sickly.

His "audience" was spread out in a semi-circle in front of him, to the left and the right of the dais. Since the torches were up on the walls behind them, and the light coming from the glowing rocks at the dais did not reach very far, assessing his opponents was more difficult than it would have been in broad daylight, but a quick estimate told him they numbered about a hundred-and-twenty lightly armoured fighters. Almost a full squadron.

They were armed in a haphazard fashion, each man apparently bearing his preferred weapons. He could see daggers, cudgels, swords and whips. Benders only rarely relied on weaponry like that, so these fighters, by and large, were probably not benders. Also, not having the same standard weapons issued to everybody made cooperation and coordination difficult in a fight. Not that this was a weakness that he'd get to exploit in the near future. With Fire at his beck and call? He would have beaten them, no question. Without it? He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt. With his bending gone, he'd have to wait, bide his time….and hope that some opportunity would open where the odds were more in his favour.

Their armour was mainly hard-boiled leather, reinforced with bits of metal plating, steel armguards, greaves and a helm that covered the eyes, but left the mouth and the jaw free. Fairly standard equipment for guards. And only the guards and soldiers in the Fire Nation routinely covered their faces or at least part thereof. Earth Kingdom military and guards left their faces bare and the Watertribe Barbarians resorted to face-paint, and that only in combat.

It had been Sozin who had started adding face-shields to the helmets of his elite troops in order to make them appear more sinister and threatening. Azulon had introduced the eye-shields to the helmets of the Fire Nation prison guards. It had proved to be a subtle, but effective tactic.

People rarely thought about how much they relied on reading facial expressions while talking to their fellows, so most never understood the unease they felt when confronted by someone whose face was obscured by a face-shield.

He remembered his first tour as a soldier. He had been a member of the elite troops, but his rank had been that of a private. When they had docked at the harbour of one of the colony towns, his lieutenant had rounded up all the new recruits and had recommended that if they went shopping in town, they should wear the full armour, including the face shields, since it made merchants less likely to cheat them. It also cut down the time needed to haggle the merchant down to a reasonable price to almost nothing.

Did his foes really think he could be scared with something that his grandfather had invented and that he himself had grown up with? If they didn't realize that he was so used to people wearing face-shields that he was able gauge a soldier's mood by voice and body language alone, and that it made no difference whatsoever to him whether he could see a mans' face or not, then they were fools. Inwardly he grinned. Things looked grim, but he certainly appreciated Nishimas' little blunders.

Apart from their armour and their weapons, the guards spread out before him were also wearing cloaks. Knee-length. Thick, brown wool. Most guards hadn't even bothered closing them, despite the chill.

Those were good cloaks. Warm cloaks.

Another shiver ran down his body and he cursed inwardly. The rush of heat as the torches flared to life had dissipated in the moist chill and the cold was once more settling on his exposed skin.

He'd love to have a cloak like that now…but he'd even settle for the tattered shirt and pants he had worn at Yun Mah prison. Anything that would even remotely help conserve his bodyheat.

Not that he'd get either.

His audience weren't the kind of people to overflow with the milk of human kindness. More likely the kind that would knife a drunk in the back in a dark alley so they could filch a few coppers.

There were plenty of men like these populating the gutters of the shanty towns that were the first new settlements to spring up in newly conquered territories. Maybe some of them were indeed recruited from the ranks of those drunkards and hired blades that sought to make their fortune in the chaos right after the battle, but who usually ended up pecking each others' eyes out like a bunch of crows.

He could spot stubble on a few chins. A bit of flab poking out here and there. Stains and worn patches on the mottled brown leather of the armour.

Soft. Undisciplined. Disgusting. Just like their leader.

It was indeed Nishima sitting on the dais, six well-dressed courtier-types at his back and a naked, half-starved slave-girl holding a silver tray loaded high with sugared pastries kneeling before him. His skin looked slightly waxy in the wan greenish light coming from the crystal rocks at the corners of the dais.

Unlike the clothes of his fighters, Nishimas' robes were spotless and made of costly silk, but with his pudgy form, the slightly dishevelled hair and the wide, vaguely insane grin, he looked like a little girls' naughty, over-bred puppy.

All that was missing was a wide, pink bow.

At that thought, he snickered. Audibly. The sound carried rather nicely in the large cave.

"Nishima. It has been a while since our last meeting. It was most gracious of you to invite me to your humble abode…..and as expected, your hospitality is….exceptional. I will have to make sure to repay your kindness appropriately."

Apparently, Nishima didn't particularly appreciate being laughed at or having his efforts at intimidation brushed off with cold disdain, for he hissed like as a peacock that had its' tail trodden on and abruptly rose from his seat, pushing aside the slave-girl kneeling in front of him, who lost her grip on the tray of sweet delicacies which she had been offering to her master.

The tray clattered to the ground, spilling its' mouth-watering load all over the ground.

For a moment, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed, Nishima stared at him.

He gave Nishima his most insolent, feral grin in return.

Like storm clouds racing across the sky, rage flitted over Nishima's face for a brief moment, but then his features settled into a sickly sweet smile. The little bastard tittered like a moonstruck maidservant, hiding his mouth behind his sleeves and then, with some effete arm-waving beforehand, had the audacity to bow to his Lord, against whom he had been stupid enough to raise a hand.

Slowly and with some fussing over the folds of his robes, Nishima settled back into his seat. He didn't pay any obvious attention to the slave-girl, which was now cringing and cowering at the corner of the dais, trying to get as far away from her master without doing anything as outright disobedient as trying to make a run for it, but he did snap his fingers twice and vaguely waved his fingers at the direction of the tray on the floor.

The slave-girl on the dais started sobbing, taking big gulping breaths that were interrupted by warbling sounds that might have been words. Cut tongue probably. Vocal cords intact, but no way left to shape the sound.

One of the guards stepped away from the group beside the dais and marched up to where the slave-girl was trying to merge her emaciated frame with the floor-boards of the dais. The guard reached up and janked her down by her hair, while another slave scuttled forth from behind the dais and hurriedly started cleaning up the crumpled heap of pastries from the floor.

The aromas of caramel, roasted almonds and cocoa wafting up from the mess on the floor were mouth-watering.

Even though Nishima hadn't actually spoken, it seemed that his followers knew him well enough to discern his will alone from the scant gestures he had made. Or maybe this kind or "accident" was so common that Nishimas' followers had developed a routine. Probably a combination of both.

The girl lay half-prostrate on the floor, one leg curled underneath her, the other stretched out and the guard, grinning and chuckling, drew forth a long, braided whip from his belt, wrapped it tightly around her throat and pulled it tight. The girl started kicking, scrabbling on the ground as she tried to find enough purchase to right herself, but the guard above her just kept kicking the legs away from under her any time she made progress and pushed her back down again. Her fingers were digging at the rope squeezing her windpipe, the motion as frantic as the dying dance of a moth that had seared its' wings in a candle-flame. The room was mostly quiet, except for the muffled sound of her bare feet beating at the floor and the wheezing little gasps she was making. The guard was drawing things out, repeatedly loosening his grip for a moment so she could catch a small, desperate breath, then pulling the whip taut around her neck again. She was turning blue in the face, her eyes bulging unnaturally from their sockets and spit dribbling from her lips.

From the "audience" there now were some small appreciative laughs and guffaws and going by the whispering in the ranks, bets were being made how long the girl would last.

It was a thoroughly disgusting spectacle. A slave might deserve punishment for being clumsy and slow, but it was not an offence worth a death-sentence. Killing her was an appallingly needless waste of resources.

Also, it was one thing to take pleasure in the defeat of ones' enemies; to either give them a quick death or make them yield to your superior strength. It was quite another to torture and murder for the thrill of watching your defenceless victim beg and suffer. Violence was a tool, a weapon. A warrior respected it and used it with purpose, but Nishima was like a feeble-minded village idiot, cutting off the tails of trapped meadow voles and thinking himself a fearsome hunter. There was no glory to be had in violence without a purpose.

Like Nishima and his men, there had been others of his subordinates that had killed for the sake of entertainment alone and most of these he had had punished accordingly.

Nishima had been an exception, for the wide net of contacts and underground operations that Nishima had owned had been too useful to discard lightly, and the man got the tasks assigned to him done with a speed and level of flexibility that would have been hard to get by otherwise. Not even his personal network of spies and assassins had been able to work quite as efficiently, since it was smaller and had fewer connections outside of the Fire Nation. His people were handpicked for their loyalty and trustworthiness as well as for their skills, and subordinates like that were far harder to come by than the seemingly unending supply of minions, culled from the dregs of humanity that made up Nishima's followers.

Handling Nishima had been like handling a savage, vicious guard-dog. One that would maul any trespasser and joyfully tear the throat out of any interloper when ordered to do so….but you wouldn't want to set such an animal loose amongst your chicken-pigs.

If he had won the fight against the Avatar at Wulong Forest, it would have been easy to curb Nishima's cruel little games to an acceptable level, since the crime-lords' usefulness would have been much diminished…as things stood though, Nishima would have to be ended.

Preferably by his hand.

Spirits forbid that the spineless, poisonous worm fall into the hands of Zuko or the Avatar. They'd only stick the murderous madman into a cell and lecture him on universal harmony and love.

The slave-girls' body had finally gone limp and the guard unwrapped his whip from her neck, letting the corpse drop to the ground. There were some appreciative whistles and jeers from the audience and he could hear the clinking of coins exchanging hands.

Nishima had watched the whole display with the wide-eyed delight of a five-year old watching the fire-works during the Midsummer Festival. A new slave had appeared by his side, another naked girl, barely out of her teens, kneeling and trembling before him, and Nishima absentmindedly munched on a fruit-dripping jam tart taken from the plate which she held out to him.

The guard bowed to his master and Nishima erupted into a barrage of "bravos" and "well-dones", all accentuated by a maniacal clapping of hands, then tossed the guard a gold coin that glinted brightly in the semi-dark as it fell. The guard bowed deeply and then returned to the ranks of his comrades.

Still feverishly bright-eyed and flushed, Nishima returned his gaze to his captive.

"Wasn't that a wonderful bit of entertainment? Didn't she squeal like a mouse? Should we do another one? That would be so exiting, no?"

He sneered at the little viper-rat and then gave a hard, short laugh that was as rough as the barking of an armadillo wolf.

"The only thing that would entertain me now, Nishima, would be to see you grovelling on the floor and then…", he yanked at his chains, "…providing a bit of hospitability that actually deserves to be called such. If you're lucky, I might be lenient and let you live."

Nishima tsked and tutted and then clapped his hands. Another guard stepped up to the dais. One wearing no coat, no weapons…but a malicious grin. Firebender. One good enough to keep himself warm by bending the Fire within himself. Nishima shot his captive a glance from beneath hooded eyelids, a self-satisfied smile playing around his lips that would have fit a cat that had just cornered a particularly fat mouse.

"My, my….I have been remiss in my hospitality indeed, have I not? I heard you lost your firebending, so you might be a bit cold, yes? You certainly would enjoy a bit or warmth, no?"

The guard stepped forth, knelt down on one knee and reached out to touch the metal plating on the floor that ran from close to the dais to right under Ozai's feet. Almost instantly, the metal took on a deep orange glow, bordering on a bright gold, and a wave of heat crashed through the room, hot enough to make the other guards flinch backwards and hastily discard their cloaks.

Even though he knew that the blistering surge of hot air was the herald of gruesome pain yet to come, he briefly closed his eyes, utterly blissed-out at the heat that flared across his skin and warmed his flesh down to his bones.

When he opened his eyes again, the intensity of the metals' glow had dulled to a dark red that was creeping slowly and inexorably towards him. The guards' smile had broadened, and he was showing his yellowed, rotten teeth.

That such a lowly thug should be able to bend Fire, while he couldn't anymore….

And they were going to use Fire, his very own element, which no longer heeded his call, to try and break him?

Ahhh….they were definitely attempting to add insult to injury.

It was working too.

Even though his main concern was that once the metal underneath him started heating up, his feet would blister and then char to a crisp, the knowledge that he could no longer ward off the heat of someone else's flame left a foul taste in his mouth.

He should have gotten used to it by now, hardened by months of taunting from the guards at Yun-Mah prison….but the knowledge still ached.

When he had tried to reach for the Fire within himself for the first time after the fight at Wulong Forest, and the spark had slipped through his fingers, he had reacted with disbelief, trying again and again, forgoing sleep and food in those first days, unwilling to accept that he had been robbed of his most powerful weapon.

He'd been so obsessed with rekindling the Fire that he KNEW should burn at the centre of his Self, that he had only stopped when he'd been too weak to stand and unable to tell whether the dark shapes in the corners of his cell were shadows or gaping holes that lead to the netherworld.

Finally, he had consoled himself that he was still stronger and more cunning than almost anybody else.

After all, Firebending was just one of the weapons at his disposal, and in the end, it would be his relentless determination that would allow him to prevail over the lily-livered, soft-hearted attitude of the Avatar and his allies.

_He was still more than others. _

…_And yet so much less than he had been._

It had taken a few days more to realize that he had lost more than just one of his best weapons.

For the first time in decades, the cold bothered him.

He could still feel the sun rise…but it no longer filled him with that spark, that restless energy that drove him from bed in the mornings and into the training hall.

Especially at night, he would feel listless and shaky….the dim feeling that something was missing was constantly there at the back of his mind, gnawing at him like a bug-rat might gnaw at a month-old corpse.

Without meaning to, he'd focus on the gaping, suppurating mess left at his centre, and he'd poke at it, even though doing so often left him nauseous and dizzy.

After a while, he started berating himself for returning to the ugly and most insidious reminder of his defeat again and again, stupid like a lovesick maiden waiting for her beloved to return home, even when she knew very well that he lay dead on the battlefield, with buzzard wasps laying their eggs in his spread-out entrails.

It hadn't made sense.

But not returning, not looking, at least every once in a while….was unbearable.

In then end, he no longer tried to channel his Chi, to make the Fire within himself burn. All that was left was the staccato beating of his heart each time he reached for his centre…and the acrid jab of disappointment that pierced his chest when he found things unchanged.

_Crippled. Maimed. Weakened._

For an instant, he pictured the young monk who had taken his bending, pictured killing the boy, slowly, blackening an eye here, fracturing a bone there, until the pulpy, bloody mass that was left was no longer recognizable as human. No, there was no glory in violence for its' own sake…but Agni, he would take pleasure in destroying the boy for what he had done to him.

It would have to wait though.

Here and now, the plating under his feet was getting warm, rapidly, and he snarled, the sound low and dark like the call of one of the great sabre-panthers that prowled the forests deep in the earth-kingdom.

What should he do?

If he lifted his feet from the ground, pulled up his legs up to his chest, then he would be able to keep his feet from getting seriously burned….for a while at least. But where would be the point? It might take two hours or three, but sooner or later, the strength of his muscles would weaken….and slowly and inexorably, his legs would droop until his feet touched the ground and he would get burned anyway…right under the mocking eyes of the guards who would have watched him try and ultimately fail.

Better to bear the torture now, on his own terms, while he still had most of his strength.

The temperature of the floor beneath his feet had changed from pleasantly warm to unpleasantly hot and soon, it would heat to a degree where it would truly scorch and burn flesh.

Eyes narrowed to slits, he looked at Nishima, who was nibbling on yet another sweet pastry, sugary syrup running down his chin, and spat out. Then, slowly, he strained, chains rattling, and in an almost lazy, deliberate movement, he planted his feet as firmly on the ground as the too short chains would allow him. He didn't say anything, but his eyes promised Nishima a slow and gruesome death if Ozai ever caught hold of him.

Nishima snickered, his eyes fixed on the spectacle before him, like a greedy child eying a display of tart and sweet candy.

The guards in the background were whispering and laughing, pointing at him and nudging each other and he caught fragments of murmurs:

"…will dance on the burning steel like a cheap whore hustling her wares…"

"…bet he'll scream so loud, they'll hear him all the way to the South Pole…"

"…5 copper he'll beg…"

He just closed his eyes; let his breath flow, slow and steady like the waves breaking on the black, volcanic cliffs near the capital.

_The rhythm is as old and as familiar to him as his own name. _

He let his mind sink into the depths of his self, focused on the knowledge that, above all else, he had a duty he could not fail. Without him, the Fire Nation, the Empire his people had built….it would all fall into oblivion.

His Nation. His people. His responsibility.

Now, more than ever, he must live up to the obligations he has towards his homeland.

That Zuko and Iroh were bringing his people low was bad enough, but their bumbling, faint-hearted approach, for all that it would reduce the achievements and victories of the last hundred years to ashes, would taint, but not destroy his peoples' spirit. Nishima, unchecked, would tear into the soft underbelly of the world like a Lion-Shark in a feeding frenzy, gutting and corrupting the Fire Nation in the process.

Withstanding this trial by fire that Nishima has set up is the first step towards reclaiming his role as protector and leader of his Nation.

Anybody who seeks to rule others must master himself first, before all else.

Harsh experience has taught him discipline and self-control and he has learned his lessons well.

In the cold Fire of the Lightning he learned to wield, where the tiniest hesitation, the smallest weakness can be deadly.

On the battlefield, where pain and fear must be forgotten if victory is to be won.

Within the harbour of his home, where personal wishes and feelings are forsaken in the face of the demands that are made of a son, a prince, a Lord of the Fire Nation.

_Pain is nothing. Duty is everything._

Under his feet, the fiery heat starts to chew at his flesh.

_Pain is empty._

Within just a few heartbeats, it feels like a thousand fishing hooks, sinking into the tender flesh of his soles, rending the flesh apart and he breaks out in a sweat.

_Pain is meaningless._

He can feel his skin separating from his flesh as large blisters form beneath his toes and the balls of his feet. The sweat is running down his skin in little rivulets, a few drops falling from his nose, his chin, sizzling as they hit the red-hot steel beneath his feet.

The quality of the sensation is different, but as far as unpleasant, bordering on excruciating experiences go, it's right on par with having his jaw and his leg broken within seconds of each other. He remembers slipping on that patch of ice, losing his footing and the sickening crunch as the Watertribe Warriors' whalebone club first hit his leg, and then made him see stars seconds later, as his jaw snapped like a turtle-duck's neck.

He grits his teeth.

_Pain is nothing. Breath is everything. _

_Focus. _

_Don't cry out._

He can hear small snapping sounds as his foot-nails crack from the heat. The small bones in his feet feel as if they might crack too, bursting from the inside out, turned brittle by the fire.

The scorching heat licks at his flesh, searing his skin until it feels like it is about to melt like candle wax. The pain is like a raging beast, clawing its' way up his legs, scratching and scraping the meat of his bones in the hollow of his knees, his thighs, his belly, sinking its' teeth in his spine, stealing his breath.

_Begging won't help. Nishima will only laugh and grin…and order his thug to increase the temperature. _

_Keep breathing. _

_In. _

_Out. _

_Deep breaths._

_Don't beg._

When had duelled that one Earth Kingdom General, forgoing the advantage of his bending, and the earthbender had hurled that rock at him, in a curve, so fast, so unexpected….He hadn't given in then, even though the ripping, bursting, rending pressure in his lower back, when the stone hit and his kidney split under the impact, had been rival to the agony in his feet and legs here and now.

Keeping the pain at bay had been easier then though. The heady rush of battle, the knowledge that if he managed to dodge the next stone, he could slide into a forward roll, slightly to the right, and he'd be close enough to strike a crippling blow at his enemies left knee, the weak one….it had been enough to keep him going. Just a few moments longer.

_Pain is empty. _

_Feel the air rushing into your lungs as you inhale. _

_Feel it flowing over your lips as you exhale._

_Keep your feet on the floor and your spine straight._

The stench of burnt meat invades his nose and the pungent, foul tang clings to the back of his throat like a leech. He can feel blisters popping up on his calves. The skin on his thighs, his genitals and his buttocks is starting to feel agonizingly tight, like the worst sun-burn ever.

Maybe Nishima will call the guard off if he tells him something.

Anything.

Just a small thing. Losing just one treasure won't be so bad, if only it will stop the pain, will it?

_No._

_Pain is meaningless. _

_Duty is everything. _

_Can't let them win._

The murmurs of his audience are getting louder, but he can't make out what they're saying over the sound of his pulse, pounding and rushing in his ears. The voices are harsh though, the words rushed, the tone vacillating between high-pitched and low growls.

Frightened.

Awed.

_Blessed Sun…Thank you. _

He snaps his head back, lets his breathing dissolve into ragged gasps for air that wheeze and whistle and almost sound like sobs; his back arches as far back as the chains will allow, then he lets himself abruptly sag in his bonds, as if all life had left his body.

The sudden pull of his body-weight on his arms feels as if his upper limbs are about to be torn from his much abused shoulder-sockets and for a heartbeat he almost blacks out for real.

The incandescent heat emanating from beneath is still roasting him alive and the urge to scream, to yank at his chains like a madman, to pull up his feet and get them away from the pitilessly smouldering steel-plated floor is almost overpowering.

_Must not move. Must NOT move….or it was all for nothing….._

It is the hardest thing he has ever done.

.

.

.

* * *

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**Soundtrack:**

Band: Eisbrecher

Song: Polarstern

For the non-german speakers: Basically, the song is the recital for the technical data for an icebreaker. Since Ozai was one for building LOTS of really big, really powerful ships, I thought it kinda fit. What nailed it for me though were the last two words: "Special feature: unsinkable."

I can really recommend this song (and this band.) The singer's voice is rough, dark, velvety….incredible. ^_~

Here's the original text plus the translation:

POLARSTERN

Länge (Length)

236 m

Breite auf Spanten (molded breadth)

max. 48 m

Seitenhöhe bis Hauptdeck (molded depth to the main deck)

27,9 m

Tiefgang (depth of flotation)

max. 14,21 m

Verdrängung bei max. Tiefgang (displacement at maximum depth of flotation)

24.300 t

Leergewicht (lightweight tonnage)

19.820 t

Motorleistung (12 Maschinen) (Power output (12 engines))

ca. 75.000 PS

Höchstgeschwindigkeit (Maximum speed)

unwahrscheinlich (incredible)

Besonderheit (Special feature)

unsinkbar (unsinkable)

* * *

.

.**  
**

**Comments**

For **Arraye**:

There are a lot of things that will change. Maybe that one too ^_^

It's going to take a while though….o_O

For **sakurazukamori8**

I'm mighty glad that you liked the story and "my" version of Ozai. I've always been fascinated by villains. My sweetheart, Sunshader, once summed part of the reason for that up as follows: "NO ONE gets out of bed in the morning, gleefully rubbing their hands together, and asking themselves "How can I do EVIL today?"". I think that most villains think of themselves as good, since it's human nature to generate a somewhat positive self-image of yourself.

I try to find out what makes Ozai tick, what motivates him…and, by extension, the Fire Nation….including younger Iroh and Zuko in season 1 and 2.

Where "we're the best" ideologies are concerned: I live in Germany, so basically, our past has some passing resemblance to the history of the Fire Nation. At the same time, I'm aware of the Milgram Experiments and the "The Third Wave" experiment conducted by Ron Jones at the Cubberley High School in Palo Alto (immortalized in Morton Rhue's book "The Wave"), so I'm pretty much aware that within certain kinds of social setups, most normal people are capable of committing great evil, without ever planning or wanting to do so…or even without being entirely aware of how evil their acts are.


	10. Delivered into Darkness  part II

**Disclaimer:**

Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:**

Pitted against an insane enemy, trickery might gain him an advantage. But at what cost?

**Author's note:**

_Anything in cursive script is a thought that's especially clear._

Also, Delivered into Darkness is a multi-part "chapter" and this one is kinda the middle bit. I would have held it back until the scene was completely finished and posted it together with the rest, but ArrayePL suggested it might be a good idea to post it now. I concur. ^_^

**SPECIAL THANKS**

Special thanks go to my beloved **Sunshader**, who did the dishes, the washing and lots of other stuff so I could write a bit. *HUGS*

Another special thanks goes to **ArrayePL**, whose thoughtful questions and comments have helped improve the story and whose prodding is very motivating. *HUGS*

**WARNINGS !**

Things are still bad.

Graphic descriptions of injuries which, if I've done my job right, are not for the faint of heart.

**TORTURE, death, swearing, general NC-17'ess.**

* * *

.

.

.

.

It's hard to concentrate on anything but keeping the pain at bay, hard to hold himself perfectly limp and motionless, when every fibre of his body is screaming with the white hot agony that blazes up from his roasting feet and rips through every nerve like lightning.

Still, there's yet a small part of him that's able to register the frantic rustling of clothes, the hurried footsteps along the top of the dais, the breathy, raspy voice whispering an anxious request.

"My Lord, with your permission…."

_Someone's worried. _

He has lost the habit of praying or saying thanks ages ago, even though the presence of the Firelord is requested for a seemingly endless number of seasonal rituals and spiritual practices.

He remembers being a small boy, watching his father don the ceremonial robes for the Midsummer Festival, all the while making some scathing remarks to one of his generals about the gullibility of people and the deplorable necessity of engaging in these pompous, time-wasting affairs in order to please and appease the public. Over the years, he has come to agree with his fathers' assessment.

Despite this, he now finds himself calling on the spirits his people revere, asking them for a little luck, a little bit of good fortune, just so that whoever is whispering in Nishima's ear right now has enough influence to have that guard stop bending Fire's heat into the steel plates beneath him.

Now.

He's about to pass out, and if he does, all of his efforts will have been for nothing.

"Oh…you think? Already?" A higher, whiny voice. Nishima.

"Yes my lord. Please my Lord. As I've explained, this kind of undertaking requires a precise application of damage. Precise. If it would please you, my Lord?"

A clapping of hands.

And just like that, the heat beneath him is gone.

The pain however…isn't.

It ebbs a bit, but like a wildfire that has gone out, it has left its' mark.

The skin of his lower body is stretched taut to the breaking point, like that of a sausage that's been fried over glowing coals until its' casing is about to burst apart.

The blisters on his calves smoulder with a red-hot ache that licks along his nerves with tongues of broken glass. A few of the blisters have ruptured and he can feel their oily, sticky contents running down his legs, leaving behind an itchy trail that stings his burnt flesh like nettles.

Worse than the pain though is the fact that he can feel neither his toes nor the balls of his feet any longer, which is a bad sign.

A…..VERY…. bad sign.

It means that the burns go down beyond his skin, down to flesh, sinew and bone and now there's nothing left there to feel the pain.

He hadn't really thought that Nishima would go this far, this fast.

He'll loose his toes and, if he's lucky, only about half of each foot.

Despite the lingering heat, he can feel a sliver of cold run down his back, stabbing deeply, and a chill wisps across his heart.

He's been _crippled_.

One needs a whole foot to run swiftly, to jump with agility, to land surely.

The balance and speed that made him into an exceptionally deadly opponent in any given fight…_gone_.

How will he make his generals respect a man who hobbles along, instead of walking briskly?

Will Nishima truly finish the job the Avatar started, by cutting away at his body until there's nothing left?

It takes a few moments until he can tell himself that when the Avatar maimed him by taking away his firebending, he was still confident in his ability to lead. And what was true then is still true now.

Even though his people are quick to weed out the weak, he never based his leadership on his battle prowess or his bending alone.

What kept him on his throne was his ability to come up with bold strategies that won his army's battles….his ability to ferret out the secrets and vices of his subordinates and his skill at using those to ensure their cooperation….and his willingness to suppress any opposition with a ruthlessness that even impressed the Fire Nation's Nobles whose' cutthroat attitude turned court-intrigue into something that made jumping into a scorpion-snake pit a boring experience by comparison.

His generals will still follow him.

Some of them because they are loyal, to their nation, to their cause, to him.

Some of them because over the years, they grudgingly had to acknowledge that he is their superior where it comes to strategy and planning, and they have a better chance of winning if he is the one to lead.

Some of them so he can bribe and threaten them until they fall back in line.

Still there's a niggling little voice at the back of his mind, asking him if he's still sure that he can get out before Nishima has whittled him down to nothing, and a first hint of nausea blossoms in the depths of his gut.

He HAS to get out of here.

…_.and he will. He has no other choice left._

_He will fight his way out of here and back to the top….or die trying._

"Get him down, quickly." The same voice as before, the same nervous tone.

Why are they nervous?

Maybe the damage they've done so far was more than they had intended?

That would bode well, meaning that at least for now, they won't maim him any further.

His heart beats faster and the pain seems to recede a little more at the prospect.

_Blessed Sun, please warm me with you light once more. Soon._

Two guards detach themselves from the bulk of the massed spectators.

Their steps echo on the hard ground as they approach, quick, but not hurried.

They haven't realized that he's only faking his unconsciousness; otherwise they'd approach him more cautiously. Despite the dire straits he's in, he can't help but grin inwardly.

The pain he's in now will seem as mild as a light sunburn compared to the agony he'll be in once he starts moving, but it will be worth every bit of it.

The guard to the right slows down and going by the clinking sounds coming from about waist-height, he's fumbling for the keys.

The guard to the left is yet about an arm's length away. Perfect.

His eyes snap open and he meets the eyes of the guard to the left, flashing the bastard a grin that's all teeth.

Time seems to slow to almost to a stop.

…

He feels air rush into his lungs like a squall that dances at the front line of a gale, his heart taking up the galloping rhythm of a horse that races along the steppe.

…

The pain is still there, but suddenly, it seems far away, as if it belonged to somebody else.

…

Despite the gloom of flickering torches and dim green glowing crystals, all the colours seem suddenly rich and vibrant, as if they had been hit by the beacon of a lighthouse, and in the play of light and shadow, each line, each shape stands out clear and crisp.

…

Sound becomes muted and slow, peoples' voices mere foghorns in the distance.

…

The guards' muddy brown eyes go wide with shock and his unshaven jaw drops open, displaying a set of teeth turned a dirty brown by chewing tobacco, a nasty habit introduced a few years ago to the Firenation by soldiers doing their duty on the southern front in the Earthkingdom, who picked it up from the local farmers.

…

As the guard freezes with shock and surprise, he himself flashes into action.

He pushes himself off the ground by what remains of his feet, hard, and grabs the chains that hold him as high above his head as he can. Then, he yanks himself even further upward with all his might, jack-knifing in the middle and bringing his legs up in front of his chest at the same time, so his knees almost touch his chin.

…

His hips are now about level with the guard's chest, which means that his next move has a good chance of working. Fortunately, the guard is only of average height, so his tactic is bound to work perfectly.

…

_He'd have had trouble getting enough leverage if the fucking asshole was too tall or too small._

…

With a speed born out of grim determination, he lashes out with his left leg, a sweeping motion from the left to the right, going high, at the level of the man's neck. As he moves, he rotates his lower leg inward in one fluid motion, until his shin his parallel to the ground.

…

He focuses on the mindless panic that spreads across his enemies' face, seemingly at the speed of thickened oil that drips from a malfunctioning engine.

From the corner of his eye, he glances at the second guard, who is yet about 5 feet away and seems dumbstruck, listless fingers clutching the keys that dangle uselessly from his hand

He kicks out, and as he does, he gets a glimpse at the blackened ruin of what once was his foot.

…

What skin remains is burned to a shiny black crisp, twisted into lumps and flaking, blood and bodily fluids leaking from the cracks.

The skin of his legs is mottled in angry reds and the sickening brownish white of broiled skin, the surface pockmarked by a myriad of blisters, most of them the size of needle-heads, some of them as large as an egg. Where blisters have burst, his skin hangs in shreds that have curled up in the intense heat.

Somewhere deep down, he knows that sooner or later, he'll look down at the mutilated wrecks that once were his legs, and he'll puke his guts out, not stopping until there's not even bile left and the dry heaving feels like it's tearing him apart….

…but right now, with battle lust singing, howling, screaming its' sweet melody in his ear, seeing the damage inflicted on his body barely registers.

…

The hollow of his knee hits his opponent at throat-level, just underneath the right ear. He hooks his leg around the man's neck, so his calf comes to rest on the unlucky guy's left shoulder. Then, he wrenches the man forward and down.

…

At the same time, he slightly lowers his right leg, only to bring it back up with all the speed and strength he can muster, knee leading.

…

The knee hits his opponent's jaw with a loud crack, which almost drowns out the dry little snap as the man's upper vertebrae, caught between the impact of the former Firelord's knee and the bracing crux formed by the leg wrapped around his neck, break.

It's the sweetest music he can imagine.

Victory is like a heady nectar, the rush of pleasure that courses through his body like the sweetest and strongest plum brandy, intoxicating and thrilling.

Like sledding down a rugged glacier at break-neck speed.

Like diving off a high cliff into the deep-blue ocean below.

The guard's eyes cloud over, death sucking the spark of life out of them, and almost instantly, the body starts to sag to the ground, like a puppet whose' strings have been cut.

…

Before the dead man has hit the ground, Ozai turns his full attention on the second guard.

The man has turned white as a sheet, mouth hanging open, his hands still on the keys.

_Perfect._

Using the corpse underneath his feet as a stepping stone, he pushes back to gain some momentum and then swings himself forward, snapping his whole body forth like a whip to breach the considerable distance.

He straightens his right leg, heel leading, he only part of his foot that's yet moderately stable and won't crumple upon the impact.

His left leg, he keeps tucked tight to his body so maximize the driving weight behind his strike.

His heel hits slightly above the right upper quadrant of the guard's abdomen and the man folds up in the middle, even as he his propelled backwards, flying through the air in an arch and landing with a dull thud back on the ground, only to slide a few feet more.

The hard-boiled leather of the chicken-shit's armour offered only a fraction of a moments' resistance before it caved in. The ribs beneath were even less of a protection, the faint popping as they crack more of a feeling than an actual sound. Experience tells him that the force of the impact was enough to drive the spiked fragments into the liver beneath.

The guard doesn't move, doesn't even twitch or move. Unconscious. If he does not receive expert medical soon, it's likely that he will die, bleeding out from a burst liver.

_Two down, a couple more to go._

His smile is wild and savage as he levels his gaze on the remaining guards.

…

They are milling about, shocked, confused. There are cries of outrage here and there and a fair amount of sword rattling, but a burly guard, slightly better dressed than the rest, with gold trimmings to his breastplate, is shouting at them, keeping them in line. Looks like he's the guard-captain.

There's a second man, thin as a sea-snake, slipping through the ranks, stopping in front of a guard here and there, sometimes whispering a few words at the man's face, sometimes punching the guard in question on the shoulder and snarling at him. When he moves on, the soldier has usually found his discipline again and stands to attention. Looks like that one knows the men, inside and out, and he works well together with his superior. The troops might be undisciplined, but their superiors are not.

_Fuck. _

_Can't will them all, though. _

…

Despite the fact that the uproar is being handled, he sees one of Nishima's "courtiers" descend from the dais, movements swift and sure as he discreetly positions himself between the guards and Ozai. The man wears fine velvet robes of a red so dark, it seems almost black, trimmed with fine black fur.

The front of his head is clean-shaven but at the back, a round patch of hair remains. The hair as longer than even what most women at court would deem fashionable, almost reaching the guys' knees and it has been braided into a thin queue. It's a really uncommon hairstyle to be found amongst Fire Nation citizens. Even most colonists wouldn't go so far as to lower themselves to sporting a hairdo that could usually be found in the Earth Kingdom.

_Strange._

It's interesting though, that Nishima does not quite trust in the competency of his officers to handle things. But he does seem to trust the bunch of sycophants that he has assembled around his little throne. At least as far as a psychotic maniac like Nishima could be said to trust anybody.

Even those that had the crime-lord's favour and "trust" weren't really safe from the madman's erratic bouts of bloodthirst.

He received a report once about Nishima having an old retainer, who had served his family loyally for years, sawed in half while the man was still alive.

The reason hadn't exactly been…sane.

The old man had worn an orange vest, on a day where one of the numerous sooth-sayers that Nishima routinely consulted had predicted that on this particular day, seeing the colour orange would be supremely unlucky.

And it had been unlucky indeed. For the old retainer.

Granted, Nishima had informed his household that he wished to see NOTHING orange on that day, but the old man had somehow been kept out of the loop and was unaware of his masters' orders. The old man's pleas that he hadn't KNOWN, hadn't meant to give offence…they had fallen on deaf ears.

Nishima had never bothered to find out why his old retainer had not followed orders like the rest of the household.

Ozai had.

Turned out that the retainers' wife had bribed the sooth-sayer and then laid out the offending garment for her husband on that day, because she wanted to be free to re-marry her lover. This little gem of information had allowed the Firelord to discreetly bribe a sooth-sayer here and there himself, to make Nishima more pliable.

Granted, Nishima had a tendency to interpret any given divination in his very own special way, making his reactions somewhat unpredictable, but overall, the tactic had yielded acceptable results.

And of course, the old retainers wife, confronted with the evidence of her crimes by the Firelord's secret police, proved to be a valuable spy and saboteur in Nishima's household.

Was she still in Nishima's employ? If she was, one of his loyal followers was bound to contact her sooner or later and maybe she knew where Ozai was being held and would pass on the information. It would sting his pride to get rescued like a high-born lady in distress, but right now, he wasn't about to be choosy.

_Any port in a storm._

…

The guard-captain and his second had almost finished restoring order to their troops. The courtier standing near the dais was still looking over to at the guards, his eyes hooded and wary, but his stance had relaxed a fraction.

_Time to poke the hornet's nest again. _

The guards were angry and more than just a little bit afraid now.

He needed to stoke that particular fire just a bit more, so the lesson he was about to teach them would stick for sure.

His options were as limited as his movement right now, and if fear was one of the tools he could forge in the heat of the moment, then that was what he'd do.

Anger and rage were sources of strength, but only if there was no underlying fear.

Anger fuelled by fear made people act rashly and without caution, and even as it could be used to tempt an enemy into attacking, it also saw to it that the very same enemy would be so blinded by his ire, he'd be paying less attention to keeping his guard up.

Such distraction, provided at an opportune moment, could be very valuable indeed.

He didn't know when or how such an opportunity would arise, but he could already imagine an example or two.

Maybe he could bait one guard into attacking when there were only no other guards around, and when he was in a position where he might reach out with his hands and grab a dagger or a set of keys from the belt of the attacking guard.

Maybe, if he couldn't escape fast enough, he'd come close to betraying his secrets, and thus his people. Under no circumstances must Nishima gain access to all the information and the treasure he had horded.

_Better to provoke a guard into killing him, rather than turn traitor. _

A last resort, but also one he would only be able to use if he laid the groundwork now.

He'd have to make sure that he could provoke the guards up to a point where rage blinded them so much, they forgot they had to keep him alive to get information out of him.

Forgot what Nishima would do to them if they offed Nishima's prize captive before the crime-lord had gotten what he wanted.

Considering that they all had seen the cruelties the little bastard indulged in, had indeed participated in inflicting those cruelties….in order to forget that, even for a moment, they'd have to be enraged indeed.

…

He sought the eyes of one of the guards in the front row, one wearing a stringy black moustache that framed his mouth like the barbels on a catgator and whose eyes shone with hatred behind his face-guard. The man was still fidgeting, despite the fact that the guard-captain was standing almost right next to him.

Maybe the wretched lowlife had been close to one of the guards he had just killed?

Going by the fact that stringy moustache also kept glancing at the dead guard lying at the Firelord's feet and that his mouth would twist like that of a pet monkey that just had its' tail trodden on when he did so, it was likely.

He grinned at the man, until he was sure that he had the assholes' undivided attention.

Then he spat on the rapidly cooling carcass lying at his feet.

Stringy Moustache uttered a cry as wild and insane as that of a hog monkey gone rabid and charged. About ten other guards, who had also watched Ozai spit on the corpse, took this as their cue to rush forward too.

None of them got very far.

Stringy Moustache was tripped up by the guard-captain and sprawled gracelessly on the ground. The guard-captain growled sombrely and kicked the downed man in the ribs so the fucker curled up like a worm, writhing in pain and wheezing like a leaky boiler, trying to find his breath again.

The other guards get a few steps further. Then the red-robed courtier steps forth, squares his shoulders, and lets his feet slide apart, going into a wide horse-stance, one leg slipped slightly forward. He raises his fists, arms bent, together with the forward leg, and then brings them down again in a forceful movement, his foot hitting the ground with a resounding thud.

Rock columns erupt from the ground beneath the charging guards, throwing them back into the ranks, bowling over some of their compatriots like pegs in a game of skittles.

_An Earthbender? As one of Nishima's cronies?_

That certainly explained why the man wore his hair in a queue. It was quite unusual though. Neither Azulas' Dai Li nor any colony earthbender with a limited citizenship would have ever risen to a position where he would share the dais with his master.

What were the man's motives for following Nishima? Was it just greed? Then maybe he could be bought. If however the source of the man's loyalty was resentment towards the Fire Nation for having put the Earth Kingdom's people in their place, then maybe he could make the man understand that supporting Nishima to get back at the Fire Nation was like a hens seeking protection against the egg-collecting farmer by invoking the help of a ferret-marten. Granted, it was unlikely he could get the man to directly assist him, but even if he only managed to goad the foppish dirt-eater into sabotaging the crime-lords' efforts somewhat, it might prove useful to his cause.

…

The guard-captain and his second in command had becalmed their troops once more and the guards were standing at attention.

If the dirty looks the thickset man was shooting him were any indication, the guard-captain was deeply unhappy about how Ozai's provocation had made his troops break rank and thus lose face in front of their employer.

As the squadron's leader, he was bound to enact some severe disciplinary measures later on, which with these scumbags, would lower morale, even as it improved obedience.

A pack of rats like this one didn't look beyond their own greed and selfish desires.

Unlike the soldiers in his army, this bunch of wretched slopsuckers had no pride and no honour, and unlike his own troops, they wouldn't feel disgraced by their failure up to the point where punishment was perceived as a just and welcome measure which would allow them to wash the slate clean. Instead, they would resent their officer for enforcing much needed discipline and order.

He smirked at the guard-captain and then chuckled, the deep, low sound that rumbled through the stone hall like an approaching storm.

_Always nice to help a fellow officer improve his relationship with his troops. _

…

Unlike with the first stunts that Ozai had pulled, Nishima had not lost his self control this time. The crooked merchant had remained seated and silent at the whole spectacle and right now, he was sporting a pleasant, vapid little smile. When push came to shove, Nishima did have good self control. The only hint that the buggering little shit wasn't quite as calm as he pretended to be, was the fact that he was gripping the arms of his chair so hard, his knuckles showed almost white in the pale green light of the glowing crystal rocks at the foot of the dais.

The room seemed to start swirling and tilting, like a fishing boat being buoyed gently by the waves. And the light seemed dimmer all of a sudden. Had someone extinguished some of the torches in the back without him noticing? He looked up to verify, not an easy feat with a neck that suddenly seemed to be made of noodle-dough. His vision was a bit blurry, as if he were looking through water. Strangely, even thought the light had dimmed, there seemed to be twice as many torches now. They were also swaying, just like the fishing boat.

_Maybe Nishima was gripping the chair so hard not because he was angry, but because he was trying not to fall from the boat?_

He almost giggled. But he didn't. Giggling was undignified.

And there was no boat.

Was there?

_Have to focus._

Over on the dais, the man with the breathy, raspy voice, the one who had been babbling on about "this kind of undertaking" requiring a "precise application of damage" was kneeling by Nishisma's side, furiously whispering into the crime-lord's ear.

Ozai could snatch a few words here and there: "if this is to succeed"…."as I said it will take time"…."erode slowly"…"more pliable".

The man was of average proportions, if a bit on the tall side. He wore a dusky grey outfit trimmed with red: a knee-length overcoat and wide pants tucked into boots. His grey-streaked hair was bound up in an orderly topknot.

As he talked, he shot a short glance in the Firelord's direction, and Ozai could see that the man had a wide tooth-gap.

He knew the man. Wasn't he the guy who….no, not that….hadn't the guy a fat, warty wife….no…no no….children's rhyme, that one…._wait a moment….he almost had it…._

Doctor Luo.

…_.Focus. Stay awake._

Old gap-tooth was reputed to be one of the finest doctors in the capital. In the last years, the man had also raked in quite a bit of money selling a fortifying tonic that was said to ward off a multitude of diseases. Doctor Luo's Herb Cordial was a fixture in many Fire Nation households.

He'd been aware that there was a connection between Nishima and the good doctor, since it was one of the myriad companies that Nishima owned which produced the cordial, but the evaluation of his spies and agents hadn't hinted at the fact that the connection between Nishima and the Doctor went deeper than that. If there had been, he would have had the doctor investigated more closely. As things stood, his information on the man was sketchy at best.

…_.damn..._

Nishima was nodding now, and Doctor Luo turned around and signalled another one of the guards. The man stepped forth and produced a blowpipe from a narrow satchel hanging from his belt.

_Darts. Probably laced with some kind of narcotic._

_Can't 'vade them forever, even if I try._

_'d look silly, swinging from side to side, trying to get away, anyway._

_Swinging._

_'zula liked swinging._

_Tired._

_Hurts._

_Hurts so bad._

_So tired._

…_.better finish up now…_

Eyes fixed on Nishima, he used his last bit of strength to stretch his lips into a hard, condescending smile.

He barely felt the little dart hit as his world lost the last bit of colour and focus and he slipped back into the welcoming darkness.

.

.

.

.

* * *

For **Cowardice**:

I'm glad you stumbled on this story too. Feedback is a rare currency and I'd like to say "Thank you" for your kind words. I'm glad you're enjoying the story and the characters so far.

It's also incredibly reassuring for any author to hear from the readers that yes, your characters are still realistic and believable and even though you've dared to experiment a bit with the style, the whole thing flows well.

One of the things that I've always appreciated most about A:tlA and now Korra, is that their characters have real depth and that the problems they face always have more than one side. If I have managed to reflect a little bit of that, then I'm a lucky writer indeed!

For **Leddie**:

*tacklehugs*

Welcome back!

*beams* I'm pleased as punch that I could make your day.

I understand completely by the way about life just getting carried a bit away. I've got a job, a family, household chores and the occasional bit of fun to keep me busy….and before you know it, another week has gone by, without anyone noticing…o_O

I loved your feedback about the relationship between Ozai and Kian not being the main focus behind the story. Thank you. That was a spot on analysis and one of the things that are really important to me.

There are too many romantic stories out there, where the bad boy changes to good, just because the good girl gives him googly eyes, flutters her eyelashes at him and says "Pretty Please, will you be nice from now on?".

Sorry, but that's NOT how it works out in the real world most of the time.

All to often, in the real world, a good woman / good girl will stick with an abusive partner in a twisted relationship, hoping that if she's just giving enough, if she just sacrifices enough, the positive character traits she can see in her partner (and even total a******* tend to have at least one or two of those) will grow into something more, and it will heal the relationship and turn an abusive partner into a partner who treats her with respect. And it never happens. The woman just burns herself out and the man ends up moving on, to fresher and greener pastures.

Now, Kian and Ozai's relationship can't be framed in exactly the same context. If Kian had had a choice, she'd have been out of the Palace so fast, lightning would have seemed slow by comparison. And if Ozai had wanted her back, he'd have had to prove worthy of that, e.g. by ending the war and making a serious effort towards peace.

So yes, she's definitely attracted to him, since the first moment they met (and vice versa!). But they both have other priorities and loyalties, which supercede any kind of affection they feel for each other. And in the end, no matter how hard Kian falls for him, she realizes that she CAN'T MAKE HIM CHANGE and that he WON'T change, at least not for her sake, and so she leaves him in the only way she knows how. (Note: Ozai tries to make her change too, to give up her loyalties and become his…pretty much like one of the conquered territories. And when she draws her line in the sand, making it clear that no, he'll NEVER have her on those terms? He doesn't take that too well. o_O) So, as it says in the blurb for this fic, it's "NOT "tru lurve" that saves the day."

As for being fascinated by Ozai (as you've probably guessed ^_~) it's something we share. Often, the villain in a story will be pretty one-dimensional, which Ozai in the show WASN'T. More than once, the show hinted that Ozai once was a kinder man, with love for his family….and that this was something that both Azula and Zuko deeply missed. Would Azula have otherwise said that their Summer Residence on Ember Island, where the family spent happier times, a place that was "too depressing"? And as Mayor Morishita says in "The Promise" : Ozai was NEVER a coward or a traitor, despite his flaws. However, the show never explained when or why Ozai changed, and I found myself trying to fill in the blanks, which is one of the things that got this story started!

Thanks again for your review and I'll be looking forward to seeing you around!

For **ShoeNinja**

Thank you very much for giving "Owned by Fire" a shot, despite the fact that it has an OC paired up with the main villain. Saying that this story is "the best piece of Ozai fanfiction" that you've read on this site is an IMMENSE compliment and I feel very flattered. Especially since you feel that my OC is up to par!

I must say, I'm very lucky, because the story got some thoughtful reviews, which emphasized the stories' strengths and talked a bit about its' basic premises, so that people who are interested in the story can get a well-rounded impression of what "Owned by Fire" is about. So I also owe you (and the other reviewers) a ton of thanks for that! ^_^

As for being able to get into people's heads, I blame my literature teacher, who was big on analyzing character motives and LARP'ing, which showed me that in order to play (or write) a character well, you need to understand what makes him (or her) tick.

Also, I've been lucky in having had the opportunity to live abroad, and more than once, I got hit over the head with the fact that other cultures don't just boil down to strange clothes and strange food, but that it often involves a totally different way of looking at things.

And as for witnessing how history affects people: I remember my family sending care packages to other family members, who lived in the in the German Democratic Republic and didn't have regular access to all the things that were the norm for me: chocolate, Barbie dolls, cassette tape deck….And they couldn't travel freely either.

And then the Wall in Berlin fell.

I've never seen people so exited before or since. There was a kind of hopeful energy in the air…it was fabulous. I kind of imagine that the people in the world of Avatar (even though it is fictious), would feel similarly. Ozai himself is taking a position that is comparable to that of Erich Honecker after the Fall of the Berlin Wall: "What I did was right, and the country that I helped build was way better than what people are doing now".

In my experience, people (especially on a national level) being ruthless and callous is something that usually can be explained and often is founded in a complex motivation. If I've managed to put some of that into the story, then I'm a happy camper indeed.

Mind, I think it is important to explain and understand why people can commit such horrors towards other people…that doesn't mean that such behaviour should be excused. People have to be held accountable for what they do. ^_~

Also, by understanding what motivates the bad guys, maybe we can avoid falling into the same faulty, unethical reasoning.

For **Art of the Artichoke**

Well, eventually, Ozai will get out of this really bad situation. Kind of. But it will take a while. Certainly a lot longer than he'd like it too. He's a survivor, but, as he knows already, there'll be hell to pay.

And yes, Ozai will be thinking about Azula. He doesn't have much time or energy to spare right now to think about anybody but himself and his own survival right now (Nishima is kind of an attention hog ^_~), but in the near future, he'll have plenty of opportunity AND incentive to think about Azula, Ursa, Zuko….and Kian.

Concerning Azula, I totally agree with you that in the end, he was disappointed in her and didn't trust her as much anymore, though I don't think he blamed her much for not killing Zuko. After all, he didn't have much luck with that either.

However, he's bound to be pissed about her lying about Zuko killing the Avatar. If she hadn't had her own Agenda and subsequently lied to him, he'd never have re-instated Zuko as the heir….and thus he'd have avoided the whole Zuko deserting during the day of the Black Sun debacle.

I think the fact that he DIDN'T take her with him on the day of the Comet, to conquer the Earth Kingdom says a lot about how little he trust her. Still, she's his only remaining heir and I figure he was going to keep a very tight rein on her, with his authority as the Phoenix King always exceeding hers as the FireLord.

Zuko never met Kian (at least not until she started wrecking his father's living quarters….) and was QUITE shocked to hear about her existence.

Azula, on the other hand, has always made a point of being very well informed of everything going on at court (I mean, hello, remember how unlike Zuko, she knew what was going on politically, even as a kid, and how she snuck behind the curtains to spy on Ozai's and Azulon's conversation?) so yes, she learned about Kian's existence and snuck into her father's quarters to see for herself. The scene will get included somewhere sooner or later ^_~

As for why Nishima is torturing Ozai, Ozai has got that one pretty much figured out:

"He's fairly certain that he knows exactly what Nishima will demand from him. The Fire Nations' treasury for one, which he split up and hid in several locations…a wealth of information memorized on almost everybody who is of any consequence… the support of the Fire Nation loyalists"

But of course, Nishima, perverted psychopath that he is, is also pretty much enjoying the show ^_~

As a kid, I read Orson Welles "1984" (incredibly impressive book) and I'll never forget how being tortured and witnessing torture changed the characters. We'll have to see just how well Nishima's henchmen succeed in bringing the Firelord to heel…

For **sakurazukamori**

Thank you a LOT for your review. It means much to me ^_^

When I watched the show, there were several things that struck me (probably much the same as they did you)

One was Zuko's speech when he confronted Ozai:

"Growing up, we were taught that the Fire Nation was the greatest civilization in history and somehow, the war was our way of sharing our greatness with the rest of the world. What an amazing lie that was."

Quite obviously, Zuko bought into the Fire Nation propaganda too until recently. Most other Fire Nation folks, e.g. Mai and Ty Lee also seem rather loyal to their homeland (despite the fact that Azula isn't the easiest person to live with).

The other one was the thing with Iroh being loyal to his nation, which seems to have struck a cord with both of us. The scene where he's close to Ba Sing Se as a conquering general and writes about it to Ursa and her kids:

"If the city is as magnificent as its wall, Ba Sing Se must be something to behold. (cut to a younger Iroh sitting at a desk, flanked by two guards, writing the letter) I hope you all may see it someday, if we don't burn it to the ground first.

(He laughs at this, then cut back to a frontal shot of Ursa, the letter scroll spread open in the foreground, with Zuko and Azula on either side. They laugh with Iroh at this comment.)

People always say that Ozai was a monster for wanting to burn down the Earth Kingdom. But Iroh didn't seem to have a lot of qualms about burning down Ba Sing Se...a pretty densely populated city.

And even Ursa...friendly, gentle Ursa, descendant of Roku...SHE laughs at it too.

As for the next chapter...here it is!


	11. Delivered into Darkness part III a

**Disclaimer:**

Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:**

Events take an unexpected turn, but it's unclear if for better….or worse.

**Important notice:**

I will be posting this story on other platforms too, like livejournal, adultfanfiction net, archive of our own, etc.

If this site ever goes down (unlikely, but hey, better safe than sorry), you can find this story there.

**Author's note:**

_Anything in cursive script is a thought that's especially clear._

I've been writing on this bit for what seems like AGES and it finally reached thirty pages…without being anywhere near completion.

I didn't want to make people wait any longer to read at least parts of it, so I'm breaking it up a bit. This part is the first 10 pages or so.

**SPECIAL THANKS**

Special thanks go to my beloved **Sunshader**, who did the dishes, the washing and lots of other stuff so I could write a bit. *HUGS*

Another special thanks goes to **ArrayePL**, who keeps pestering me about the characters and the next chapter, which keeps me from going insane and also improves my insight into the characters. *HUGS*

**WARNINGS !**

Things are still bad.

Graphic descriptions of injuries which, if I've done my job right, are not for the faint of heart.

**Reference to torture, mutilation, swearing.**

* * *

What wakes him is the persistent feeling of nausea, the clenching of his gut, the way his stomach seems insistent on trying to claw its' way up through his belly and chest.

Eyes closed, he takes a few fast, deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm the queasy feeling. The stale, fetid air is not much of a help.

He can tell that he's still hanging in mid-air, the way he was before he lost consciousness. The unpleasant bite of the manacles and chains that keep him more hanging than standing is unmistakeable.

His whole body feels numbed though, as if it had been wrapped in damp cotton.

There is no pain.

Startling, considering the terrifying injuries he sustained….and how, despite this, he burned out every shred of power he had, down to the last spark, running on the explosive fumes of battle-lust fanned into an all-devouring flame.

There have been a few other emergencies where he had to deplete his reserves down to his very core, beyond the point of what his body could normally sustain. There are only few masters out there who can reach as far into themselves, can call upon their very essence in such a way. Azulon could. So could Iroh. Some Waterbender Master of the Northern Watertribe.

In the past, after such a feat, he has always been attended by some of the best healers and doctors the Firenation had to offer. Even so, he usually felt as if a horde of komodo-rhinos had played kick-ball with his body and as if a boarcupine was rooting for truffles in his head.

Here and now, the worst he can say is that his head feels heavy and stuffy and hot.

Something strange is definitely going on.

There's sweat on his brow and it's trickling down, stinging and salty, into his still-closed eyes. It also runs down his neck, his chest, where it cools off and pinches his skin with clammy fingers.

From the waist downward, things grow increasingly chilly and at the level of his feet, which he has difficulty sensing at all, the feeling is almost gelid.

Somehow, despite his bone-deep dislike for the cold, his body can't be bothered to work up even a shiver.

_Some kind of drug maybe?_

_Nishima needs me coherent and talking. So it would make sense to have the doctor shield me from the effects of my injuries._

He thinks of his feet, of the charred and bloody ruin that remained, oozing clear liquids, and shudders.

_Would have to be a fucking strong drug to dampen pain that's that strong…probably would numb the rest of my body too, pretty much in the way it feels now._

_But Nishima has to know that I'm still far from talking….so what's his angle?_

_Why give me something that would help me keep a clear mind? _

The newly added weight of edged metal around his neck and around his ankles clues him in on the fact that whatever Nishima has planned next, it still doesn't involve a soft bed with silk sheets. Not surprising, given his little show earlier.

The rounded weight of a large ring at the front of his collar presses into his breastbone. For some odd reason, it irritates him more than any of the other parts of his restraints.

It takes him a few moments to figure out.

The posture he's in, he should feel the silky softness of his beard lying on his chest.

But there's only the leaden weight of the ring.

His beard's missing.

Now that he focuses on it, his chin feels raw too and there's a slight burn…just like after a badly done shave.

_Damn their eyes._

It's such a small thing in the greater scheme of things, but that doesn't keep a flush of indignation creeping all over his skin.

_Assholes. Shaved me while I was out cold. No doubt one of the Hog Monkeys they use as guards around here is toting it about as a trophy._

Anger burns like acid in his veins, but his means of exacting revenge are rather limited right now….and what use would it be if he howled his outrage, rattled his chains and called his captors vile names?

He wants to. Badly.

Anything, no matter how small, just to get back at them.

It's no use.

The weak kid in the schoolyard that vents its' frustration, raging and swearing at his out-of reach bullies, only invites more ridicule.

And he is not weak.

_Get a grip. There's no sense lamenting over spilled tea. You can kill them all for this later. Slowly._

Focusing on the major issue at hand, he strains to hear what's going on.

The chamber has emptied.

Going by the slight shuffling sounds in front of him, he estimates that there are about ten people left in the room….all of them out of his reach. A little bit to his left, he can hear a quill scratching over paper. To his right, there's a card game going on, the conversation low-key, but easily understandable.

_Hmm…someone's having a lucky run._

A little further to right, someone seems to be feeding a dog or a similar animal, going by the slobbering sounds coming from ground height and the encouraging remarks of "yeah boy, eat it all up".

The few deep breaths that he's taken have probably alerted his surroundings to the fact that he is no longer deeply unconscious, but there's no point in letting his enemies know right away that he's wide awake.

His head is still hanging down limply and he cracks his eyes open a tiny bit, so he might evaluate his situation a little further.

The first thing he sees is a large wooden tub full of water that has been placed directly beneath him.

His lower legs are submerged in the liquid. The light doesn't reach into the depths of the tub, and the water itself is slightly murky, so he can't actually see his feet, which is a blessing. He hates throwing up and losing the contents of his stomach here and now would be more than a little bit distracting.

The queasy feeling in his stomach settles somewhat within the next few minutes, as nothing happens, apart from the fact that he can still hear that quill scratching over paper, with short pauses when the one writing dips his quill into a nearby inkpot.

There are long ropes sticking out of the tub, ropes that in all likelihood have been fastened to the shackles on his legs. A quick count shows there are eight of them, four for each leg, and the ropes are tied to four rings set into the ground at the points of the compass. Right now, the ropes are slack, lying there like dormant snakes. But it would be quite easy for the guards to untie them, pick them up and then pull on them in order to hold his legs in whatever fashion suited them. Considering that they had used four ropes for each leg, holding him still in a specific position seemed to be important.

_Not good._

_Need more information._

_Let's see what they'll do once I'm officially awake._

He raises his head and opens his eyes fully.

Bright lanterns placed on man-high holders in a semi-circle in front of him chase away the shadows around him. The guards, all eight of them, are indeed lounging about at the perimeter of the lighted area, playing cards, dozing or, as in one case, picking at the dirt under their fingernails with a pointy dagger. One of the guards is bent down over a brownish bundle that looks more like a woolly garden-slug than any kind of dog.

_Everybody else gone and these guys have settled in quite a bit. I must've been out for a long time._

Doctor Luo is sitting at a small desk to the left, writing. At his shoulder, a young man stands, the face of even but bland proportions, his hair and his clothes a lighter coloured version of Doctor Luos's.

Doctor Luo raises his eyes to look at him, and his face lights up with the ghoulish satisfaction of a little boy burning ants with the help of a magnifying glass.

"Ah, you're awake. Good, good."

He casts a short glance at an hourglass sitting on his desk, which is almost empty and nods.

"Just in time too. Earlier than the other subjects, but that was to be expected."

The doctor rises from his seat, the legs of his chair grating harshly over the stone floor as he does so. He takes a few steps towards Ozai, so he's almost but not quite within reach.

The young man who was standing with Luo has picked up a black lacquer tray that was sitting on the desk and followed the doctor. There are several instruments lying on the tray: Probes and scalpels and pincers as well as a few cotton balls, a small brown glass bottle and a small silver bowl.

Doctor Luo snaps his fingers and points at the tub and the guard get up, grumbling.

They head for the ropes, one man per rope, unknot them and pull them taut, lifting his legs out of the tub and pulling them to the front, towards Doctor Luo.

It leaves Ozai hanging almost vertically above the floor, stretched tight like a sail.

He doesn't want to see the ruin of his feet, doesn't want to see the evidence that he's a cripple now, but he can't look away, his eyes drawn to the red ruin at the bottom of his legs, half by horrified fascination and half by the knowledge that any sign of squeamishness will make him look weak.

And he can't afford to look weak. Not now, not ever.

Someone has already worked his feet over.

All the blackened, flaking bits have been removed and what remains is about half a foot, no toes, the flesh raw and open, bleeding sluggishly, with the white of bones sticking out here and there.

The nausea that he had thought conquered returns with a vengeance and for a few moments, it takes some hard, fast breathing and all his concentration not to soil himself with whatever scant contents his stomach holds.

Picking up one of the probes from the tray and a pair of pincers, Doctor Luo leans down towards his feet, his face plastered with the calmly curious expression of a young boy pinning butterflies to the board of his collection.

As the doctor lifts a flap of muscle and slips the probe along the bone underneath, all he can feel is a slight pinch and a bit of pressure…but that doesn't change the fact that at the sight, his stomach clenches violently, sending an influx of foul-tasting acid flooding up into his mouth and he needs to swallow hard, several times, in order to keep it down. If Luo keeps this up, he won't be able to much longer.

Luo's eyes light up as he examines the bloody meat and bones and he waves his assistant closer.

"Here Wei, tell me what you see"

"The…um…the metatarsals have come back in? And…uhm…and the interosseal musculature is…regrowing?"

_What the hell? Regrowing? _

_But that must mean Nishima….._

…_of course. _

_He did. _

_He had one. _

_Requisitioned those services myself…that one time. She came back without as much as a single scar….and I know I damaged…BURNED muscles that day, not only skin. And what wasn't burned was flayed by my whip. Not down to the bone though._

His mouth goes dry and there's a small, exited flutter at the pit of his stomach, which, against all odds, is NOT another bout of nausea.

_I wonder…._

Meanwhile, the doctor had shot his assistant a look of the blackest disdain and cuffed him behind the ears with a casualty that spoke of longtime practice.

"Is that all that you see? Pfshah! You obviously haven't been paying attention the last few times."

Grumbling to himself about how a fondness for dissecting live animals was not enough if one wanted to become a doctor and how one actually had to learn all about anatomy and acquire medical knowledge and skill, Luo turned back towards Ozai's feet.

Still muttering, he jabbed the pincers between the bones, pushing and poking at whiteish sinews and ragged muscles like a crow picking at a dead animal.

"…ah…yes….let's see…"

The doctor's hand holding the pincers jerks and he can feel the pull on his muscle all the way up to the back of his knee.

"Yes, attached quite nicely….now how about this…"

A painful tug at bottom of his foot that makes him wince.

"….seems solid enough…."

The grating noise of metal over bone.

"….will do….yes."

Doctor Luo steps back and signals the guards, who lower his body back, taking care to guide his healing feet over the rim of the tub and into the water without banging them against the wood.

The doctor nods at the guards and returns to his desk, Wei at his side.

While the majority of the guards were busy re-knotting the ropes to the rings on the floor, one of them walked over to the brownish bundle lying at the foot of one of the lantern holders and carried it over to the tub, dumping it right beside it with a dull thud.

It wasn't a dog.

It was a bundle of rags, stiff with smudges of dirt, covered with stains, stinking of pee and shit and rotten food. For a few moments, nothing moves within the depths of that bundle, but then an arm sneaks out of the folds, long and bony, the fingernails uncut, ragged, but strangely clean. The ring and the middle finger are missing and only a pale, frazzled network of scars shows where they once were.

The hand grabs the rim of the tub and pulls itself upright and the dark cloth slides back to reveal a skull-like face, with shadowy hollows where the eyes should be and a gaping hole instead of a nose. On top of the head, which is puckered and dented like a badly abused set of pells, only a few stringy and matted patches of hair remain. The lips are gone too, the drawn back scar-tissue leaving the impression of a perpetual maniacal grin that bares rotted gums and a few broken teeth.

The…._thing_….drools, with slime running down its chin and dripping to the floor and there's a raspy, croaking little wheeze each time it draws breath.

It wiggles and squirms, until its' upper body is leaning against the tub's wooden rim. The cloth has fallen down and lies crumpled around the creatures' hips, revealing an emaciated form that's missing its' right arm up to the shoulder and both legs up to above the knee.

He's seen men eviscerated, howling in agony as they clutched their bleeding bellies, trying to keep their intestines from spilling out, weeping for their mothers.

He's heard the fallen wounded cry and beg in desperation as their comrades trampled them, driven back by their enemies' charge, the dry cracks and squelching sounds as human bodies were squashed into bloody mush by hard-soled boots and rhino hooves replaying endlessly in his ears for months afterwards.

He has choked on the roast-pork aroma of men turned into living torches who ran across unharvested fields that had become a battleground where armies clashed; the men screaming like nothing human as they burned, driven mad by mind-shattering pain and blind terror. And as those poor wretches ran and burned and finally fell amongst the golden wheat swaying in the breeze, they ignited the stalks, transforming the chaos of the battlefield into a blinding inferno that was hell on earth.

Even as he accepted these vicious incidents as a necessary price to pay for the Fire Nations' final victory, he had had nightmares about them, both asleep and waking, for a very long time. And yet, none of these experiences had made his hair stand on end quite as badly as this…this half-alive corpse creeping towards him.

The creature, braced against the tub, so near that it's almost close enough to touch him, releases its' hold on the tubs' rim and stick its' hand in the water.

He can't stop himself from flinching back.

The guards chuckle, but, eyes riveted on the skeletal monster at his feet, right now, he couldn't care less.

The water in the tub starts to swirl and it feels like a chilly, slimy, toothless mouth is sucking at his feet.

The sick and nauseous feeling that rushes through his whole body and makes him break out in cold sweat all over has nothing to do with the damage done to his body and everything to do with the creature that is now bending the water in which his lower legs are hanging.

_Hell._

_With a waterbender at hand…they can horrifically torture their victims without running the risk of killing them in the process. And they can hurt people longer and more often, because the time their victims need to recuperate and heal up is shorter._

_Fuck it….I'm screwed._

For the first time ever, he doubts Azulon's wisdom of first capturing and then, one by one, selling the waterbenders to the highest bidder. Certainly, the strategy had gotten rid of a significant threat to the Fire Nation's goals and filled his countries' coffers in one fell swoop.

In retrospect, they should have kept a MUCH closer eye on the enslaved waterbenders, maybe restricting their use to the military. It clearly hadn't been sufficient to write contracts that threatened the owners with stiff penalties if their property went rogue, since that particular ploy did not keep track of rogue owners.

How many waterbenders had Nishima's father bought, all those decades ago? A dozen or so? How many waterbenders did Nishima own and what exactly where they capable of?

His knowledge on waterbenders wasn't extensive, but he knew more than most, since he'd researched waterbenders when his slave turned out to be one.

He had tried to gauge her capabilities, because he didn't trust her to be entirely truthful to him.

For weeks, he'd worked his way through musty old scrolls and dusty books until he was fairly certain that, untrained as she was, his little toy was unlikely to give him nasty surprises he couldn't cope with.

As a rule, waterbenders either excelled at fighting and building or at healing and as far as he could ascertain, they were never equally proficient in both disciplines, even if a healer could learn some combat skills and a fighter a few healing techniques.

His pet was obviously more inclined towards the healing arts, so it was unlikely that she could come up with an attack that he couldn't handle. Even so, he had seen to it that she never had access to a greater quantity of water and for a good long while, he'd made sure not to turn his back on her or leave her untied when there was as much as a cup of tea around.

_I did end up relaxing my guard around her…a little. _

_I was so certain that she was so much in love with me, she wouldn't think about raising her hand against me. _

Bile rose at the back of his throat and he spat out, spittle hitting the ground somewhere close to Luo's desk. The good doctor didn't even bother to look up from the paperwork he was busy with.

_Yeah, trusting her that much was one really bad miscalculation. Although she did honour our bargain, even after that one night._

_She was a damn fine healer….but would she have been able to regenerate lost limbs or snatch someone back from beyond the brink of death?_

These things were not unheard of, but after Firelord Azulon had begun to systematically abduct and subjugate all waterbenders of the Southern Tribe and the Northern Tribe hat shut itself off from the rest of the world, they had become the stuff of legends.

_She dealt with broken bones and torn muscles easily enough. But if I'm not mistaken, she never had a true master to teach her. It's not like my father left any master waterbenders at the South Pole that could have taught her…and if she ever reached the North Pole, they wouldn't have allowed her to leave again. _

_As a healer, she's a valuable resource and the way we had them caged in and attacked their fishing fleet at every chance we got, they would have been happy to keep her. And meeting a travelling Waterbender Master somewhere in the Earth Kindgom or in the abandoned Air Temples? In those years where I didn't know where she was? _

Inwardly he snorted derisively.

_Fat chance of that happening._

_And if there'd been a waterbender around at the garrison where she was stationed, the army would have made an arrangement with the owner so that the more serious injuries got treated by that bender and not the old quack that she was working for. It's not like any citizen can say "no" when the army requires their service…or that of their property._

He glanced down at the bundle of bones and desiccated flesh, wrapped in rags, which crouched below him. The….thing….hardly moved. It's hand was obscured by the murky water in the tub, water that was now circling in the tub with the ferocity of a maelstrom….an inverted maelstrom which crept up his burned legs with the inexorable slowness of a flytrap sloth that had caught a bit of prey in its' sticky abode.

_So….looks like Nishima's about to have me healed. _

_So he can torture me some more. _

_But if I'm not completely misinterpreting Luo's remark…then this sack of bones is a waterbending MASTER healer….and he's about to restore my feet and legs….maybe fully. _

Even the realization that this might mean that he might have to undergo the ordeal of having his body mutilated again and again if he couldn't escape here, soon….it couldn't dim the sparks of excitement that raced through his body like a fireworks gone wild.

Heart pounding like a drum, he scrutinized the churning waters, which reached up to his hips by now. He'd seen cleaner liquids in an army cesspit and the way the water seemed to swallow him like a ravenous tiger-shark gobbling down his prey was a bit….disquieting.

This didn't look like anything that Kian had ever done.

When she healed, the water was pure as crystal glass and it glowed a pale, bright blue, just like core of an incandescently hot flame, the glow barely visible in the sunlight. And she could make do with a bit of sweat or a thimbleful of water if necessary. In her attempt to hide what she was, she had learned to be discreet in her workings and make do with very little.

But then, the water in the tub beneath him had probably been quite dirty to begin with, so it was only to be expected that it would be so murky.

His legs started to itch.

It was only a bit at first.

It got worse.

Fast.

Like that one time where his squad had cut through a swamp in order sneak behind the Earth Kingdom platoon they'd been fighting at the time. They'd been covered in mosquito bites within hours.

They'd completed their mission and attacked the enemy lines from the rear, assuring their own platoon's victory…but instead of celebrating their victory with good food and strong drink, they'd spent the night in the medical tent, smeared from head to foot with a greenish salve that smelled like the unholy mating between a week-old dead cow-hippo and rhino shit, just to take care of the itching and the fever.

The brush of the water against his skin turned slimy and gritty and suddenly, it seems like all strength has been sucked from his muscles, leaving his legs up to his hips feeling mushy and bloated, as if they had started to rot.

_Wait. This is…not right._

The itch acquired a rasping quality. And then there came an aching pressure that ghosted over his lower body…as if an army of maggots was crawling all over his skin.

His heart begins to pound, it's rhythm as frantic and as unsteady as the feet of that slave-girl had been, drumming on the ground as she choked and his mouth goes as dry as if someone had stuffed it full of dust and cobwebs.

_No._

Kian's healing had never felt like this.

Never.

Not even when she was so out of it…so doll-like…. that the servants had to make sure that they didn't let her sit in the sun in the garden, because she didn't seek out the shade on her own anymore when it got to hot. He hated it when she flinched back from his touch, involuntarily, because even the slightest touch chafed her irritated skin.

Her healing. It had always felt so gentle.

_Smooth._

_Soothing, like a mothers' lullaby. _

_Like being bathed in warm milk. _

The water rises.

It burns like the touch of a jelly-fish.

Up to his navel.

A prickling ache, like the world's worst mosquito-bites; a thousand miniature punctures in his hide, filled up with poison.

Up to his chest.

And then whatever feels like maybe a jelly-fish and maybe mosquitos and maybe crawling maggots on his skin…. it seems to have decided that he'll make a tasty meal, and he can feel it starting to burrow underneath his skin, eating its' way into his flesh, thousands of hungry little mouths equipped with jagged mandibles biting into him, tearing, chewing, mashing their way into the depths of his body.

He can't help himself.

He screams.

He struggles.

And yet, the water, the seething, foaming scum and watery filth that envelops him, keeps rising.

_NO!_

_THIS ISN'T WHAT HEALING FEELS LIKE!_

_No! No! No!_

He barely notices the guards in front of him laughing, elbowing each other in the sides, pointing at him…the clink of coins that exchange hands as the winnings of earlier made bets are collected upon. Luo's looking up at him, dictating notes to his apprentice, who is standing by the good doctors' side, scribbling furiously as he transcribes his teachers' wisdom into a notebook.

In the front, the water has risen up to his armpits and has begun to snake up his arms. In the back, the water runs up his neck and into his hair in little rivulets, which feel as slimy as snails and sting like hornets.

Frantically, his eyes sweep across the water that envelops him in a seething, swirling column, trying to see what's happening, trying to assure himself that his body is not the aching, putrefying, worm-riddled corpse that his senses tell him he's being turned into.

He can't see a thing.

_Spirits, what is that monster doing to me, it's eating me alive it's inside me get it OFF getitoffme…._

Despite the fact that the cold, rational part of him that knows that it is hopeless, that he can't get out, that the chains are holding him, that the foul dark waters have him in an iron grip, he can't stop himself from thrashing around like a wild, mindless animal.

But of course the water does not relent, it clings to him, and this time he can't control himself when his intestines resume their violent contractions and he abruptly loses whatever contents his stomach still holds, fouling the water he's in even more.

He keeps on retching and spitting and, when there's nothing more left, dry heaving, his cramping insides making him shake like a drunkard who has run out of liquor.

_Waterbender'snothealingmeIdon'tknowwhathe'sdoing…but..this…is..NOT…what…being…. healed…by…a…waterbender…should…FEEL…like…._

And suddenly….there's something alien that glides across his thoughts, skimming the back of his mind….like one of the great sea-snakes, bumping lightly against the hold of a warship, testing its' prey, right before it gets ready to sink the whole thing.

_NO! No! Leavemealonegoawaygoaway…..GO AWAY!_

In his mind, he's shrieking, shouting, trying to drive out whatever monstrous concoction of Nishima's has managed to invade the privacy of his thoughts, his mind.

The presence pays him no more attention than a sailor would pay attention to a dog barking on the docks. There's an odd air of sharp but unfocused interest to it, like a badgermole that has scented a nest of tasty grubs, but can't yet locate the exact direction of his quarry by any of its' other senses.

The moment doesn't last long. The…thing…sniffs? tastes? feels around for a moment and then, with a lurch that seems to shake his entire world, dives into the depths of his mind, of his memories…..dragging him along like a minnow caught on a fishing line.

* * *

For **Rom**

All 10 chapter in a row?

Wow.

Since by now, the story has reached something that qualifies as "novel-length", that must have taken you quite a while! I hope you had a comfortable chair to curl up in and some beverages and munchies handy!

I feel your pain as far as the lack of Ozai development in the series is concerned. They teased us with so much stuff (Zuko's flashbacks!) that hinted at something more going on with the man…and then they left us to puzzle it out for ourselves. Well, challenge accepted!

And you're right, Ozai is not a nice guy. He does have a few good qualities though and I felt that most of his bad sides might have been due to growing up as Fire Lord Azulon's second son, in a Nation that was waging an aggressive war that started out with a genocide.

I always felt that, if Zuko had not been banished, but had remained his fathers' heir, long-term he would have pretty much turned into a copy of Ozai: cold, ruthless and a fanatical patriot

….and I also felt that, vice-versa, if Ozai had undergone some of the transforming experiences that Zuko had, he might have changed his attitude.

On the subject of Kian: The next chapter already has 20 pages….and most of it is Kian / Ozai interaction.

And yes, I'll keep going, though, as you've probably noticed, it's gonna be slow.

for **RandomCitizen**

Now THAT's a compliment of the highest order! Thank you.

I'm tickled pink that I could piece something together that you enjoyed, even if it wasn't your usual cup of tea!

for **Gabubu**

I sincerely hope you're still alive. The next update will be a bit faster than this one, I promise.

for **nothing new in this world**

Wow.

That's one seriously long review, and not only am I flattered, I'm also thrilled that people like you are doing one of the things I love most about writing: discussing and analysing the plot, the characters, the motifs.

Thank you ^_^

Concerning Iroh: a lot later in this story, there WILL be more of him to be seen. After all, Kian agreed to go to Ba Sing Se with him ^_~

Concerning Ozai:

Machiavellic? You BET!

I don't think that taking the throne was an easy feat, concerning that until the last moment, pretty much everybody expected that Iroh would rule.

Plus, if Azula's and Zhao's behaviour is anything to go by, the court as well as the military are a snake-pit of intrigue, with a dog-eat-dog attitude that would make the Borgias blanch.

To be the top-dog in a setting like that, you have to be the meanest, most underhanded and ruthless asshole around…and I think that Ozai was up to that challenge.

Someone like that is not going to be deterred by the fact he's (temporarily?) in a situation where he's at a severe disadvantage.

Also, you're right about a lot of Ozai's attitude being something that (in the story) came from Azulon. As a father, the old man did several things:

a)

give Ozai an over-inflated image of his importance as a figure for the nation ("You're a prince, you always have to be the best and you're more important than other people.")

This isolates Ozai from other people, which in turn makes it harder for Ozai to develop empathy and it also makes Ozai less likely to listen to the opinions of other people, since he's been taught that they, and their opinions, are inferior to him.

b)

make Ozai complicit in committing atrocities (like having to burn his friend to death), which makes it a LOT harder to question if what you're doing is right.

After all, if you have to admit that there's NO justification for the atrocities you've committed, then, in one fell swoop, your self-image inverts from being the defender of your nation, who had to make some really tough and painful calls in order to protect his people, to an inhuman, crazy monster…. and who could easily admit to something like that and still live with themselves?

People, even abusers and evil dictators, LIKE having and maintaining a positive self-image. They tell themselves: "The ends justify the means". Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

c)

deny Ozai his own dreams and wishes, subjugating them for the glory of his "duty". ("Wanna paint and do artsy stuff? Too bad, but a prince doesn't do sissy stuff like that.")

People in general try do something fulfilling with their lives. Something that lends deeper meaning to their existence. And people usually don't limit themselves to just one area, e.g. they might be good at their job, loving parents, passionate hobby-artists, all at the same time. And their identity is defined by all of these aspects.

If one of them falls through (e.g. you lose your job, the kids grow up and move out) then you still have other areas where you have an identity and where you can be yourself.

Azulon limits Ozai's identity to just one area: A member of the Royal Family, whose sole duty, whose whole ambition has to be centred on the well-fare of his Nation.

If Ozai loses that, he loses everything. And if there's just one thing defining your whole existence, then you're likely to fight tooth and nail in order to keep it. Which Ozai does.

Zuko, by comparison, has had all his privileges taken away and had to cast his own lot in with other people, he never got in so deep that his way back was blocked (=he never actually killed anyone for the sake of "Duty to the Fatherland"), he had doubt cast over his own self-image (the exiled Prince? the Blue Spirit? a Traitor to the Fire Nation?)…and thus Zuko got an opportunity to change.

Zuko was real lucky.

As far as torture goes: I didn't actually do much research, I just used stuff that I picked up over the years:

A visit to the tower of London, books read at a friend's place, who is into shibari and similar practices….and a few documentaries on TV seen over the years, ranging from subjects like Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition to torture of the Falun Gong by the Chinese Government or prisoners in Abu Ghraib by US Soldiers.

Also, most importantly, I live in Germany. And over here, you can't grow up without being confronted with the atrocities of the Nazi Regime. I've visited two concentration-camps while growing up (Dachau and Ausschwitz), we went to see "Schindler's List" in class and I pass by some of Gunter Demnig's Stolpersteine on a daily basis. (You might not be familiar with the Stolpersteine project. It's very much worth looking-up, for it's quite unique in the way it keeps the memory alive of the atrocities that happened.)

Regrettably, Nishima has had (and still has) many real-life counterparts.

On the subject of Stockholm syndrome:

Although Ozai and Kian's relationship bears many traits of the Stockholm syndrome (and its' counterpart, the Lima syndrome) there are a few essential bits missing:

Stockholm victims usually feel deep gratitude towards their captors for such simple things as feeding them, allowing them to go to the toilet and not killing them and they are often in denial about the severity of their captor's offenses.

Although Kian feels empathy (and love) for Ozai, Kian never mistakes a lack of abuse for kindness and she never makes excuses for Ozai's abuse of her.

As you noted, she loves the man he could have been…not the man he actually is.

She only loves him for the moments where he shows genuine kindness, and yeah, for a while, she hopes that he'll realize that what he'd doing / did is wrong (Because to her, it's quite evident that at the moment, he has no idea whatsoever just HOW wrong his actions and the values they are based upon are.).

She thinks that, since he's begun listening to her, a bit, there might come a point where he will understand, where he'll begin to empathize with her and others, where he'll be ready to turn the whole situation around….but he inadvertently ends up dashing that hope, and she uncompromisingly draws the consequences after that.

Also, Stockholm victims routinely show dependency, lack of initiative and an inability to act, decide, or think.

Kian always remains critical of Ozai (nope, not gonna help him come up with something that will make winning the war easier for him!) and has no compunctions about letting him know, and even though it's quite risky for her, she keeps challenging him, questioning him.

It's quite a novel experience for Ozai ^_~

Stockholm syndrome also is a compromise that the victims psyche makes in order to improve the victims' chance of survival.

Kian isn't making compromises. She sees potential for good in Ozai and she's ready to give him a chance because of that…but when he blows it, she chooses to cut her ties with him, and survival be damned.

Concerning getting to know Kian:

Next chapter already has 20 pages….and most of those are Kian / Ozai interaction. Granted, they're mostly focused on his view of things, but you'll probably also gain some insight into her perspective on things.

There are going to be a few long-term effects of the abuse she suffered, but they're not going to be as bad as they could have been.

Some people are very resilient to trauma, and Kian is one of them; or, to put it in Iroh's words: "Water is the element of change. The people of the Water Tribes are capable of adapting to many things. They have a sense of community and love that holds them together through anything."

It also helps that the abuse was worst at first, but got a lot less over the years that followed, up to a point where her relationship with Ozai was largely one of mutual love and respect (although Ozai would have rather dropped dead than admit that last part….and she still had some major reservations about the whole thing).

Interestingly enough, most abusive relationships go through an inverse process, starting with a honeymoon phase, where the abuser is kind and caring, only to become more abusive over time.

Of course, then things went pear-shaped, and she withdrew so deeply into herself that she didn't notice anything much…and he also withdrew from her, so in the end, they were pretty much living separate lives where there wasn't much abuse going on either.

Still, living with Ozai and the abuse she has suffered have shaped her and as a consequence, she will make some decisions which are very un-Watertribe like.

P.S.: You're right about this story being a long one. It does come in several arcs though. I've got it all plotted out in my mind…however, typing it all up takes a while, especially since I have to juggle my family, my job and a bunch of other things around my writing schedule*sigh*

P.P.S.: In case you haven't noticed: I LOVE getting long reviews and discussing the story. Writing can feel quite lonely (my computer doesn't really talk back or comment, ya know…) and other people chiming in on what's going on makes me feel like there are others out there, sharing the experience.

for **galaxyCreator**

Nope, Ozai was chained up the whole time.

He was free to move his legs and his feet though.

Since he's quite athletic and a deadly opponent as a martial artist, just having his legs free and making use of that was enough to bring down to guards.

With the first one, he wrapped one leg around the back of the mans' neck, so he'd have some leverage, and then he used the knee of the other leg to hit the guy under the chin so hard that the guys neck snapped back with enough velocity and force to break it.

Ozai is strung up by his arms, with his legs free, so the set-up is similar to a kids' swing.

So for the second kill, Ozai swung back a bit and then forward again, one leg stretched out, the other leg tucked in. This move gave him a lot of momentum and he made use of that, kicking the second guard in the ribs with his out-stretched leg. The impact was so hard, that the guards' ribs broke and punctured the liver, which can lead to a potentially deadly haemorrhage, since the liver has some major vessels running through it.

I'm glad you liked how I got into Ozai's head. It's an interesting place to be ^_~

Funnily enough, I can't stand gory horror movies, but within the context of a story, if it serves to bring the plot along, I rather enjoy writing "gruesome".

for **Shippo3313**

That song basically got the whole story started and there are specific songs I listen to when plotting other bits of the story.

I don't know if you know the band Eisbrecher, but I recommend checking them out. They're going to be featured quite heavily as far as the soundtrack for the next few chapters goes.

for **Cowardice**

Seriously, I'm not sure what's worse: being mutilated, and knowing you'll stay that way forever…or knowing that after being mutilated, you'll be restored to your old self, only to go through the horror of mutilation again….and again…and again.

It's a bit like Prometheus getting his liver eaten each day, only in more creative and daily differing ways.

for **Kijo Asuka**

I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much. I write at every chance I get, unfortunately, with real life being what it is and with the necessity of putting buns on the breakfast table, this is going to take a bit of time. I'm hoping though that you'll hang around regardless ^_~

for **Shoe Ninja**

Ozai's self-discipline is phenomenal…otherwise he would never ever have managed to gain the throne and hold on to it for so many years.

However, pain has a habit of eroding our barriers and Ozai makes no exception to this rule. With him though, it takes a bit longer since he's one seriously tough cookie.

There's a lot of stuff Ozai wouldn't admit to as long as he's in full control of himself…but that kind of control will be harder to achieve the longer Ozai is subject to Nishima's tender care…plus, now there's a waterbender rummaging around in memories that Ozai would have preferred to keep under wraps.

for **Cotton Strings**

There's going to be a TON of Kian-centric stuff in the next chapters (even though the viewpoint will be Ozai's).

Please note that, without your comment, those chapters wouldn't have existed.

I've had some Kian / Ozai scenes swimming in my head for AGES…without having the faintest idea of where to insert them in the story.

Well, you wanted more Kian, like NOW, and I thought….hey, why not? I can make those scenes fit into the sequence right there!


	12. Delivered into Darkness part III b

**Disclaimer:**

Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.

**Summary:**

An unexpected intruder delves into his mind, looking for….something. Against his will, he is dragged into memories of the past. What will happen when the intruder finds what he is looking for?

**Important notice:**

I will be posting this story on other platforms too, like livejournal, adultfanfiction net, archive of our own, etc.

If this site ever goes down (unlikely, but hey, better safe than sorry), you can find this story there.

**Author's note:**

_Anything in cursive script is a thought that's especially clear._

Anything squeezed in between

(((

and

)))

is a memory.

I've been writing on this bit for what seems like AGES and it finally reached thirty pages…without being anywhere near completion.

I didn't want to make people wait any longer to read at least parts of it, so I'm breaking it up a bit. This part is the 5 pages or so.

Most of these are flashbacks.

**SPECIAL THANKS**

Special thanks go to my beloved **Sunshader**, who did the dishes, the washing and lots of other stuff so I could write a bit. *HUGS*

Another special thanks goes to **ArrayePL**, who keeps pestering me about the characters and the next chapter, which keeps me from going insane and also improves my insight into the characters. *HUGS*

**WARNINGS !**

Things are still bad.

This chapter is rather mild though. Mention of violence, swearing.

* * *

(((

His head rests in his mother's lap as she combs his hair, humming a lullaby. He can hear the waves breaking on the beach and taste the salty air on his lips. The day was warm and sunny and there's still sand all over his skin. The sun is sinking into the ocean, the sky a riot of orange, red and bright gold, melting into a darker turquoise and royal blue, the first stars are coming out and the air is cooling rapidly. He snuggles deeper into the blanket his mother has spread over him and closes his eyes, smiling happily as she bends down to place a soft kiss on his brow.

)))

_What the hell?_

(((

Fire Lord Azulon turns away from the window, displeasure written all over his face.

"Weakness." He hisses. "A damn disgrace."

From the garden beyond the window, Ozai can hear laughter. The happy, carefree laughter of a young boy, accompanied by the deeper but no less merry guffaws of a grown-up.

Crown Prince Iroh is in the gardens, playing tag with his son, Lu-Ten.

Ozai nods. He has heard this rant before. And his father is right.

What would their enemies think, if word got out that the favourite past-time of one of their most feared Generals, General Iroh, the Dragon of the West, the Heir to the Throne, the man who drove back the counter-attack of the Northern Water Tribe's fleet and who conquered almost as much Earth Kingdom Territory as their father…..is to play silly, childish games with his son?

Their enemies would laugh.

They would fear Iroh less.

They would fear the Fire Nation less.

They would become bolder in their counter-attacks.

Iroh is not doing his homeland any favours by engaging in such sentimental antics.

The Firelords' face bears a sour expression, as if he had bitten into an unripe avocado.

"Your brother is a brilliant general. Strong. Ruthless. Like I taught him to be. But I left too much of his upbringing to your mother, I'm afraid. She was a good wife….but she too had….weaknesses. Acceptable in a woman, but a possibly fatal flaw in a ruler. Should Iroh take the throne after me, then I expect you, as his chief advisor, to keep him out of trouble. I think I can trust you not to develop such…" the Fire Lord looks back at the direction of the window and sneers "…shortcomings."

Movements precise and controlled, like those of any good soldier, Ozai salutes his father.

"Yes, my Lord. I will not disappoint you."

Azulon fixes his gaze on his younger son, eyes like chips of diamond. "I sure hope so."

"Now" he continues, suddenly all business "about that upcoming marriage of yours."*

)))

_It's….it's riffling through my memories. Like…..like a scholar would browse through a book._

_What the fuck is it looking for?_

_These memories aren't even important._

(((

The headache couldn't be worse if a herd of komodo-rhinos has been running riot inside his skull for a week.

The right shoulder is still tender and writing is an exercise in masochism.

He dislocated it for the first time a few years back during a minor skirmish, and it's been easy to dislocate again ever since.

The second of the eight challengers today knew about that old injury and went right for it. Cooling the shoulder with an ice-pack would be the right thing to do, but the last time he did that, he fell asleep over his paperwork and the melting water dripped on some of the reports, smudging them into illegibility.

He's glad he can at least cool his left foot in a bowl filled with water and ice-chips. It's badly sprained, maybe even one or two of the small bones in his instep are broken, and he's damn glad that it will be another four weeks until he faces the next set of challengers.

Things would be easier if he had a Second to weed out all but the most serious challengers, but there's no one he can trust, no one good enough, and so he has to meet all those who would challenge him to an Agni Kai because they doubt his right and his ability to rule himself.

Thankfully, his ancestors had decreed that the Firelord could be challenged only at his coronation and after that only once a month, and only by those who had shown themselves worthy, otherwise he wouldn't get any work done at all.

There are still a lot of people that feel that Iroh should have been the one sitting on the Dragon Throne, though even now, nobody knows where his brother has disappeared to.

There are those that mutter about foul play and assassination plots, those that wonder if Azulon's last minute change of heart was as well-founded and as genuine as the witnesses say it was.

The smouldering unrest hidden underneath the court's seemingly composed exterior makes for some dangerous duels once a month, and he idly wonders how long it will take until the last of the contenders realizes that the new Firelord can't be defeated.

He certainly tries to discourage further challenges by outright killing his opponents, but once the fires of unrest burn in the heart of the malcontents, the flames are hard to extinguish.

Never mind the day to day toil of governing a Nation that has not yet fully accepted him as the rightful ruler.

He's certain that the chief treasurer is embezzling money and he's been pouring over the accounts for days, but he's no accountant and there's no one he dares ask, afraid that whoever he calls for assistance might betray his suspicions to the treasurer.

Two of his generals are at each other's throats and sabotaging each other wherever they can, but somehow cooperate marvellously when it comes to pretending that everything is in order. If he could either mediate their quarrel or prove that they have broken military law, he could end this little charade, but so far, no dice.

Zuko failed an exam on military strategy. For the second time. Since his mother left, the boy has dangerously slacked off in his performance and sooner or later, he will have to summon the boy to have a serious talk with him.

One of his spies turned out to be a double-agent.

The list of bad news seems endless, and he's so fucking sick of it all, but giving up is not an option. It never was an option.

He rubs his temples for a minute and takes a sip of the bitter tea that usually helps him stay awake, but it seemingly lost all potency hours ago. He blinks to clear his blurring vision and, with a heavy sigh, reaches for the next missive.

He blinks a few more times when he sees the seal.

_Damn. Has it been another year already?_

His agent at the garrison is an old comrade in arms who turned to teaching when he lost a hand in battle and he's been keeping an eye on that little thief he caught years ago after he had her sent to the town near the garrison.

As he browses the short missive, he can't help but chuckle as he reads sentences like "subtly tries to undermine morale by bribing kids with self-baked cookies and filling their heads with Watertribe stories".

He'd wondered if imprisonment and slavery would change her, maybe break her, but no, like water she has adapted, gone with the flow…and all without changing her fundamental nature one bit.

Of course the hell-cat that had dared break into a Fire Nation fortress to steal secret military documents in order to sell them to the highest bidder was unlikely to change her stripes just because she'd been collared.

Already, she was more or less running the old doctors' practice and give or take a few years, she'd be firmly established as the main local healer.

He reads on, smiling, his headache all but forgotten, until he stumbles over one short phrase: "maintains no kind of romantic or sexual relationship".

The memory of her lithe but well-rounded body beneath him, her soft lips just a breath away from his, the surprise in her eyes…it hits him like a sledge-hammer and from one heartbeat to the next, he's so hard, it hurts.

_Hellfires._

He and Ursa were more than willing to offer relief to each other when either had an itch to scratch, but those trysts got increasingly rare as their disagreements became more frequent. The last time he shared a bed with Ursa was how long ago? A year? A year and a half? Sure, he still jerks off, but it's just not the same.

Add in a few battle-highs as well as a mountain of bureaucratic problems that makes him want to break something and his body is fairly starved for a good, hard fuck.

He hasn't given the subject much thought until now, there were too many other, more important things to be seen to, but with a start he realizes that the demands of his flesh are not going to be his sole problem in that department.

Now that he had to banish his wife, the court beauties will soon start throwing themselves at him at every chance they got, painted and bejewelled like camelephants during a Fire Festival.

And of course, if he took any of them to bed, even if it was only in order to take the edge of his appetites, it'd be expected that he'd pay back the ladys' services in the form of favours for her and her cronies.

_Soot and ashes. How am I going to survive this? They'll hound me like a rabiroo. Even my own chambers won't be safe from them; sooner or later one of them will be able to bribe her way into my inner sanctum. _

_It'll be a mess._

_And if I don't yield to at least one of them, they'll start rumours. That I raped one of them, that I favour boys over women, that Zuko and Azula are not my children, that due to a war-wound I'm "defect" down there…I'll lose face and the support and the political backing I've achieved for myself within the last few weeks will evaporate into thin air. _

The headache came back with a vengeance and this time, the rampaging komodo-rhinos brought some boarcupines along for company.

He scrunched his eyes shut and banged his head against the high backrest of his chair repeatedly, ignoring the painful twinges the movement sent through his shoulder.

_How the fuck am I going to deal with this? _

He balled his hands into fists…and felt as well as heard paper crinkle.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and scrutinized the now rather wrinkled report in his hands.

He studied it for a moment and then a slow grin crept across his face….and camped there.

_Of course._

_It's the perfect solution. _

_I wonder if her eyes are truly as deep blue as I remember them?_

Reaching for his quill and a blank scroll for orders, he muses that his ancestors must be indeed favouring him right now.

Until he has fully established himself as the new Firelord, his life will be filled with mind-grinding paperwork and senseless, wasteful discord and strife…but at least there will be something waiting for him in his chambers that will amuse and relax him.

)))

* * *

For **sakurazukamori8**

I honestly don't know how many parts it will take. I've got it all mapped out, from finish to end, but exact number of chapters….I've no idea. I do hope I can get a few people to stick with me through it all though ^_~

I always felt that there was a lot more about Ozai than met the eye, and if I've managed to convey some of that in this story, then all the better. Thank you very much for letting me know!

Ozai as he is now is unbalanced as a personality. He is extreme in his ruthlessness, his arrogance, his contempt for others. Trying to even the scales with this story is a lot of fun ^_^

About not torturing Ozai too much: Yes, he's in for a really rough time…BUT there will also be quieter moments, moments of unexpected peace. Time for questioning the past and his beliefs, time for reflection. And, most importantly, he won't be alone. ^_^

For **ShoeNinja**

Thank you very much for your kind feedback!

*g*

I kinda keep forgetting that other people don't know what's happening behind the scenes and what will happen next, so I often think to myself "jeesh….I'm probably going to bore people to death with this one…".

It's incredibly good to hear that, despite my misgivings, I'm able to keep people guessing and to keep it interesting for those reading. ^_^

The "twist at the end" will prove to be a deeper thorn in Ozai's flesh than anything Nishima does to him, though it will take him a while to realize it. Because really, what is the difference between him and the crime-lord? He thinks himself Nishima's better…but is he really?

For CottonStrings

Whoa….looks like the last chapter really got to you. That's a wonderful compliment. Thank you!

The next chapters won't be quite as intense…but hopefully equally to your liking ^_~

For **Decepticon-silverstreak**

Alive? Why yes, it is!

Concerning Ozai being totally badass: he has to be.

As could be seen in the series, intrigue and backstabbing and challenges are the daily bread of life within the Fire Nation (or at least the military part) and if you want to be top-dog within a pack of rabid wolves, you'd better be the biggest, baddest of them all, otherwise you're dead.

So yeah, Ozai's got enormous stamina and he can pack quite a punch even when he's severly wounded.

However, even he has a limit…and Nishima got pretty close to reaching that. Still, Nishima is hampered in the lengths he can go because he has plans for Ozai…


End file.
